"I hope your dreams have been pleasanter than that," I ventured at this moment to stammer, rising, a startling apparition, from my ambush behind a mound of brambles; and before she had time to take in the situation I added that I hoped she'd excuse my little pleasantry, and told her how I had noticed her and the wounded bicycle, et cetera, et cetera, as the reader can well imagine, without giving me the trouble of writing it all out.
She was sweetness itself on the instant.
"Excuse you!" she said, "I should think so. Who wouldn't? You can't tell the load you've taken off my mind. I'm sure I must have groaned in my sleep—for I confess I cried myself to sleep over it."
"I thought so," I said with gravity, and eyes that didn't dare to smile outright till they had permission, which, however, was not long withheld them.
"How did you know?"
"Oh, intuition, of course—who wouldn't have cried themselves to sleep, and so tired too!"
"You're a nice sympathetic man, anyhow," she laughed; "what a pity you don't bicycle!"
"Yes," I said, "I would give a thousand pounds for a bicycle at this moment."
"You ought to get a good one for that," she laughed,—"all bright parts nickel, I suppose; indeed, you should get a real silver frame and gold handle-bars for that, don't you think? Well, it would be nice all the same to have your company a few miles, especially as it's growing dark," she added.
"Especially as it's growing dark," I repeated.