The waiter brought heavy stationery, and with Mr. Morton’s fountain pen she began to write. He watched her closely until he was certain she was engrossed in her note, then stealthily he possessed himself of her handbag which she had left upon a third chair beside the table. This he cautiously opened, and into it he slipped an envelope which he took from his pocket. Then he closed the bag and returned it to its place.
Mary finished her letter, thrust it into an envelope, which she sealed. This she held tentatively above the table.
“On your honor as a gentleman you promise not to open this until I give you the word?”
“Promise? I swear!”
“And you promise not to try to be—too friendly until I give you the word?”
“That comes hard—but I promise that, too.”
She held out the sealed envelope. He took it, and also caught her hand.
“Even if I’m not allowed to read, I’m allowed to guess—and hope,” he said softly; “and in the meantime, I’m going to call on you now and then—and for the sake of discretion, I’ll take my chances and come unannounced.” And smiling expectantly he slipped her letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
A little later, when they had parted, she met Uncle George near the elevators. It was evident that he, too, had just finished lunching.
“Mary,” he said solemnly, “excuse me for not having failing eyesight, as a man of incurable senility should have—but really I couldn’t help lamping the would-be gazelle you were eating with.”