I turned. In a nook of the shrubbery was another rustic seat. Rising from that seat and gazing at me with a look of amazed incredulity, was—Frances Morley.
I did not speak. I could not, for the moment. She spoke first.
“You!” she exclaimed. “You—here!”
And still I did not speak. Where was the calm with which I was to meet her? Where were the carefully planned sentences which were to explain how I had come and why? I don't know where they were; I seemed to know only that she was there, that I was alone with her as I had never thought or meant to be again, and that if I spoke I should say things far different from those I had intended.
She was recovering from her surprise. She came toward me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why did you come?”
I stammered a word or two, some incoherences to the effect that I had not expected to find her there, that I had been told she was at church. She shook her head, impatiently.
“I mean why did you come here—to Leatherhead?” she asked. “Why did you come? Did you know—”
I interrupted her. If ever I was to explain, or attempt to explain, I realized that it must be at that moment. She might listen to me then, before she had had time to think. Later I knew she would not.
“I knew you were here,” I broke in, quickly. “I—we—your aunt knew and we came.”