"Ah, well. It is good occasionally to revisit the old scenes. No, Elf, I will sit here; I will not be en face to that row of tables. Half a dozen people would certainly recognize me, and I do not wish it."
Elf! The name drove Philip's thoughts backward with a bound—back to a torrential night in a London square, and the tearing open of a carriage door in time to save a sweet little girl all robed in white, who, but for him, would have fallen with an overturned vehicle.
Elf! It was an unusual pet name. The child of ten years ago would be about the age of the lively and spirituelle girl by his side. The child had faced her enraged uncle on that memorable night; the woman had refused to leave him when she thought danger threatened in the park.
Could it be possible! He was startled, bewildered, utterly dumfounded by even the remote possibility that another figure from the past should come before him in such wise.
"Mr. Anson! What have you found in the menu to perplex you so terribly? Does danger lurk in the agneau du printemps? Is there a secret horror in the salmi?"
Evelyn's raillery restored his scattered wits.
"May I say something personal?" he inquired.
"About the lamb?"
"About you? Mrs. Atherley called you 'Elf' just now."
"Yes. I regret that I earned the title in ages past. The habits have ceased, but the name remains."