"And you wish that he would," Delafield wanted to reply, trying to remember if she had ever called him "Henry" before.
On a warm April evening, when the windows were open to catch the setting sun and the odour of the blossoming window-boxes, he came at last. As he stepped into the room, head erect, eyes wide and bright, they became aware immediately of a change in him. His glance was more conscious, more alert, his hand-grasp more assured.
"You are in time to dine with us," Anne said, with her grave smile, "we are all alone. Will you stay?"
"Thanks, I can't stay, I'm going somewhere else," he answered quickly.
"And the new poem?" Delafield inquired, "did you get it done? That was to be the last, wasn't it?"
"Oh! I haven't been writing lately," he explained, blushing a little. "I've been too busy—that is, I've been too—I've been thinking of something else." He stood before them in the full light of the late day; every expression in his sensitive, mobile face showed clear.
"A perfectly wonderful thing has happened," he burst out, "you couldn't understand. Nobody can understand but me, and—and——"
"Who is she?" said Delafield bluntly.
"How did you know?" cried the boy, "have you seen—did she tell——"