“Nice boy,” she said to herself; and aloud: “You mustn’t forget that you’re to come in to dinner some night soon. Everett will know better than I what evening will be convenient to you, and so I shall leave it to him. But don’t let him put it off too long. I want you to meet Mr. Kingsford; he likes young men; I believe he almost thinks he’s one himself. And if it’s not greatly out of your way, Mr. Ryerson, you might walk toward the Public Garden. It’s just possible that you’ll meet Elizabeth coming home. It’s about time, I think, and I know she’d be sorry to have missed you altogether.”
Phillip threw her a glance eloquent of gratitude.
“I will then,” he replied. “She couldn’t be nearly as sorry as I.”
Fortune favours the persevering. At the end of Phillip’s third trip between the house and the equestrian statue of Washington—for Mrs. Kingsford had not limited him to one excursion—he spied Betty, a captivating figure in walking skirt and Norfolk jacket, swinging toward him across the bridge. Phillip hurried toward her on the principle that the farther from home he met her the longer he would have to walk beside her. She greeted him quite without embarrassment and gave him a small hand encased in a gray glove of undressed kid that was so soft and snuggly feeling that it was an effort to release it. Her cheeks were glowing, and the light brown hair, escaping from under a jaunty felt hat, was frisking about just as he remembered it.
“I’ve been to call,” he announced.
“Have you? I’m sorry I was out. You saw my mother?”
“Yes.” Then in a burst of admiration: “She’s mighty good and kind, isn’t she?” Betty looked surprised.
“Why, of course she is. But——”
“You see, she told me that I might find you if I came this way.”
“Oh,” said Betty, “did she?” They were walking toward the house. Phillip was dawdling disgracefully.