She looked up at him shyly, with a shyness which he found curiously embarrassing.
"You are just what I expected you would be. See here."
Taking him by the hand she led him to a table. On the table lay a photographic album. The album was of considerable size. It seemed to be full of photographs. She opened it.
"See," she said, "I have them all. At least, I think I have them all."
The album contained nothing but photographs of Mr Ferguson. He filled it from cover to cover. When he perceived this was so, he was tongue-tied. He felt, almost, as if he were some guilty thing. She went on,--
"I made arrangements with someone over here--he is in a news agency, or something. I told him to find out whenever you were photographed and to send me copies. So you see that I have been able to follow the changes which have taken place in you from year to year."
He said nothing. He could say nothing. He could only turn over the leaves of that photographic album.
"But I not only have your photographs, I have every speech you ever made. I have read them over and over again. I believe I know some of them by heart. I have everything you ever wrote. I have records of you which will surprise you, one day, when you see them, Ronald." She paused. Then added, half beneath her breath: "And you? Did you take any interest in me?"
"Were not my letters proofs of that?"
"Yes, indeed! Ah, Ronald, if it had not been for you I should never have come home."