Ted did not appear that day. But the next morning Nell was standing in the dining-room window, snipping off the dead jonquils from a bunch in a bowl, when, glancing up, she saw Ted coming in at the gate. She nodded and smiled, and he raised his hat. She dropped two or three dead jonquils and ran out into the hall to open the door.
"Well—" she began; she stopped abruptly—no one was there. She looked to the right; she looked to the left; she gazed up at the sky as if she thought Ted might have become possessed of wings and had flown away. Then suddenly she gave a quick little nod, and off she started in pursuit, clad in blue painting pinafore, and clasping the large pair of old scissors. A good way in front of her there was a broad-shouldered figure striding along at a terrific pace. Up the road went Nell, and after her came an open-mouthed butcher's boy. Nell was a splendid runner, but Ted's pace was swift and his strides long. He turned the corner and disappeared.
"Ted! Ted!" But he was too far off to hear. She rounded the corner in her turn, and collided with a respectable old gentleman going citywards.
"So—sorry!" she gasped, not stopping. "Did I hurt you?" she called back.
"A—pleasure!" ejaculated the respectable old gentleman, who was little and very rotund. He gazed dazedly after her and the butcher's boy. Then—for he was a chivalrous old gentleman—he trotted after them.
"If I—can help—" he observed breathlessly to a lamp-post as he passed it.
"Ted!"
He heard at last, and turned and stood staring. Then he approached stiffly, hat in hand. The butcher's boy and the little old gentleman drew nearer.
"Ted—" Nell clutched hold of his coat-sleeve.
"If I—can help—" The little old gentleman had reached her side now. The butcher's boy stood listening, mouth agape.