"Yes."
"Long ago?"
"Last autumn."
"Is her home there?"
"I believe so. It was then."
"Oh, you don't know her very well then?"
"No, I don't. And I don't know why on earth I've got to be put through a catechism about it."
"Oh, say! You really must think I'm awful!" cried the poor young man contritely. "I do beg your pardon, Mr. McRae. It really must have sounded shocking to you. But, well—I—did you ever meet a young—any one whom you knew—at first sight—was the one person in all the world for you?" His voice sank. The day was cool and breezy, but poor Afternoon Tea Willie's face was damp and hot and he wiped it carefully with his fine hem-stitched handkerchief, murmuring apologies.
"No, I never did," said Roderick quite violently, for no reason at all.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," murmured his visitor, vaguely alarmed. "You can't understand my feelings then. But that's really what I felt when I saw her. It was a revelation, one of those swift certain intuitions of the soul, and I—you don't mind my telling you this, do you, Mr. McRae?"