“But there is really someone?”
“Yes.”
“How splendid! Tell me about him.”
Jane Hubbard clasped her strong hands and looked down at the floor.
“I met him on the Subway a couple of days before I left New York. You know how crowded the Subway is at the rush hour. I had a seat, of course, but this poor little fellow—so good-looking, my dear! he reminded me of the pictures of Lord Byron—was hanging from a strap and being jerked about till I thought his poor little arms would be wrenched out of their sockets. And he looked so unhappy, as though he had some secret sorrow. I offered him my seat, but he wouldn’t take it. A couple of stations later, however, the man next to me got out and he sat down and we got into conversation. There wasn’t time to talk much. I told him I had been down-town fetching an elephant-gun which I had left to be mended. He was so prettily interested when I showed him the mechanism. We got along famously. But—oh, well, it was just another case of ships that pass in the night—I’m afraid I’ve been boring you.”
“Oh, Jane! You haven’t! You see ... you see, I’m in love myself.”
“I had an idea you were,” said her friend looking at her critically. “You’ve been refusing your oats the last few days, and that’s a sure sign. Is he that fellow that’s always around with you and who looks like a parrot?”
“Bream Mortimer? Good gracious, no!” cried Billie indignantly. “As if I should fall in love with Bream!”
“When I was out in British East Africa,” said Miss Hubbard, “I had a bird that was the living image of Bream Mortimer. I taught him to whistle ‘Annie Laurie’ and to ask for his supper in three native dialects. Eventually he died of the pip, poor fellow. Well, if it isn’t Bream Mortimer, who is it?”
“His name is Marlowe. He’s tall and handsome and very strong-looking. He reminds me of a Greek god.”