“No, I haven’t exactly forgotten him, but—I do think he might have written to me.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Did he ask your permission to write?”
“Good gracious, no. We never talked of writing. Old red sandstone, rather, was our topic of conversation. Still, he might have acknowledged receipt of the book.”
“But the book was given to him in return for the one he presented to you.”
“Yes, I suppose it was. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Then again, Kate, Russian notions regarding writing to young ladies may differ from ours, or he may have fallen overboard, or touched a live wire.”
“Yes, there are many possibilities,” murmured Katherine dreamily.
“It seems rather strange that Mr. Henderson should have time to come up here in the middle of the week.”
“Why is it strange?” asked Katherine. “Mr. Henderson is not a clerk bound down to office hours. He’s an official high up in one of the big insurance companies, and gets a simply tremendous salary.”
“Really? Does he talk as well as Jack Lamont did?”