“Good Lord, I say, what ho!” cried Ginger. “Fancy meeting you here. What a bit of luck!” He glanced over his shoulder warily. “Has that blighter pipped?”
“Pipped?”
“Popped,” explained Ginger. “I mean to say, he isn't coming back or any rot like that, is he?”
“Mr. Carmyle? No, he has gone.”
“Sound egg!” said Ginger with satisfaction. “For a moment, when I saw you yarning away together, I thought he might be with your party. What on earth is he doing over here at all, confound him? He's got all Europe to play about in, why should he come infesting New York? I say, it really is ripping, seeing you again. It seems years... Of course, one get's a certain amount of satisfaction writing letters, but it's not the same. Besides, I write such rotten letters. I say, this really is rather priceless. Can't I get you something? A cup of coffee, I mean, or an egg or something? By jove! this really is top-hole.”
His homely, honest face glowed with pleasure, and it seemed to Sally as though she had come out of a winter's night into a warm friendly room. Her mercurial spirits soared.
“Oh, Ginger! If you knew what it's like seeing you!”
“No, really? Do you mean, honestly, you're braced?”
“I should say I am braced.”
“Well, isn't that fine! I was afraid you might have forgotten me.”