Breakfast over, the young man returned to the stoep, and in an enclosed portion of it discovered Miss Grace among the ferns and hot-house plants. For some minutes after the first few remarks he watched in silence, and then, as she paused to study the effect of a rearrangement in a small basket of ferns he asked quietly:
“Are you Miss Gracie?”
She looked up quickly, flushing a little, and then said coldly:
“Yes, I am Miss Hardy.”
“I mean no impertinence, Miss Hardy. I asked if you are Miss Gracie because I heard of you by that name twelve years ago.”
“Indeed! Then you are an old friend of my father’s?”
“Well, yes, I believe he would consider me so. But I should have told you my name before this. Pardon the omission. Ansley it is—George Ansley.”
“Ah—Mr Ansley! Yet I don’t remember ever hearing him speak of you. But be sure of this, if you were his friend then, you will be his friend now. He does not forget old friends. Let me see. Twelve years ago. Those were the early days—those were his hard times when you knew him.”
“Yes, he was down then—very down; and I am very glad he has prospered. No man better deserved it.”
The girl’s eyes grew a little misty—this was her weak point. She looked up at him, saying simply: “Thank you.”