"Entirely by myself."
"You're too clever for one man. You ought to incorporate."
It seemed to Hamilton Beamish that the moment had arrived to speak out frankly and without subterfuge, to reveal in the neatest phrases at his disposal the love which had been swelling in his heart like some yeasty ferment ever since he had first taken a speck of dust out of this girl's eye on the door-step of Number Sixteen, East Seventy-Ninth Street. And he was about to begin doing so, when she looked past him and uttered a pleased laugh.
"Why, Georgie Finch!"
Hamilton Beamish turned, justly exasperated. Every time he endeavoured to speak his love, it seemed that something had to happen to prevent him. Yesterday it had been the loathsome Charley on the telephone, and now it was George Finch. George was standing in the doorway, flushed as if he had been walking quickly. He was staring at the girl in a manner which Hamilton Beamish resented. To express his resentment he coughed sharply.
George paid no attention. He continued to stare.
"And how is Georgie? You have interrupted a most interesting story, George."
"May!" George Finch placed a finger inside his collar, as if trying to loosen it. "May! I—I've just been down to the station to meet you."
"I came by car."
"May?" exclaimed Hamilton Beamish, a horrid light breaking upon him.