He had not stood there long when Blanche returned with an envelope in her hand.
“This is my little letter,” she said, holding it out to him. “Thank you for taking charge of it, though it does not say half—not a hundredth part—of what I feel for her.”
“I know that she will value your sympathy,” said Archie, wishing he could think of something less commonplace to say.
He stood there, feeling, if not looking, uncertain and embarrassed, Blanche’s evident expectation—for she did not sit down again—that he was on the point of going, not tending to set him more at his ease.
Suddenly he spoke.
“I know you are busy, Miss Derwent,” he began. “I’ve no doubt you are wishing I would go. But the truth of it is, I can’t go without saying something more to you.”
Blanche looked up, a gleam of surprise in her face.
“I am busy,” she said, smiling a little. “But if it is anything important, I can wait a few minutes.”
Archie glanced irresolutely towards the window.
“Would you mind,” he said, “coming out into the garden. It is something important, and if we stay here they will be calling for you immediately.”