Helen did not avert her glance instantly. Nor did she at once resume a stroll evidently interrupted to take in deep breaths of the beauty of the scene. That was encouraging to the American,—she expected him to speak to her.
He halted in the middle of the road. If he was mistaken, he did not wish to alarm her. “If you will pardon the somewhat unorthodox time and place, I should like to make myself known to you, Miss Wynton,” he said, lifting his cap.
“You are Mr. Spencer?” she answered, with a frank smile.
“Yes, I have a letter of introduction from Mr. Mackenzie.”
“So have I. What do we do next? Exchange letters? Mine is in the hotel.”
“Suppose we just shake?”
“Well, that is certainly the most direct way.”
Their hands met. They were both aware of a whiff of nervousness. For some reason, the commonplace greetings of politeness fell awkwardly from their lips. In such a predicament a woman may always be trusted to find the way out.
“It is rather absurd that we should be saying how pleased we are that Mr. Mackenzie thought of writing those letters, while in reality I am horribly conscious that I ought not to be here at all, and you are probably thinking that I am quite an amazing person,” and Helen laughed light heartedly.