“I couldn’t believe it was you!”
A girl in blue had risen from the nearest table, and was staring at her in astonishment, Jill recognized her instantly. Those big, pathetic eyes, like a lost child’s, were unmistakable. It was the parrot girl, the girl whom she and Freddie Rooke had found in the drawing-room, at Ovington Square that afternoon when the foundations of the world had given way and chaos had begun.
“Good gracious!” cried Jill. “I thought you were in London!”
That feeling of emptiness and panic, the result of her interview with the Guatemalan general at the apartment house, vanished magically. She sat down at this unexpected friend’s table with a light heart.
“Whatever are you doing in New York?” asked the girl. “I never knew you meant to come over.”
“It was a little sudden. Still, here I am. And I’m starving. What are those things you’re eating?”
“Buckwheat cakes.”
“Oh, yes. I remember Uncle Chris talking about them on the boat. I’ll have some.”
“But when did you come over?”
“I landed about ten days ago. I’ve been down at a place called Brookport on Long Island. How funny running into you like this!”