"So? Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye," said the little girls.
Rutledge's steps quickened as he came to the path and turned hurriedly up the hill.
* * * * *
Your woman of the world is marvelous in her self-possession. In a moment of complete abandon to thoughts of her love and her lover, Elise looked about and saw the man coming to her. With her mind so intent upon him that she wavered for a moment in doubt lest his appearing was an hallucination, her manner of greeting him was the perfection of indifferent politeness—neither warm nor frosty.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. What wind blows you across the world to-day?"—she seemed to know that he was just passing across the hill.
With her heart-revealing letter in his pocket—nay more, committed every word to memory in his heart—Rutledge was taken aback by the casual way in which she spoke to him. He knew, of course, that she had not mailed him the letter and was not aware that he had it; yet on the basis of the letter he had conceived words he would say to her and she to him: but not a word he had prepared was possible at the moment.
"I am—I came—I have an appointment with Mr. Sanders, the owner of The Mail—at the hotel—at half past eight." The appointment had been made ten minutes ago. It was the only wind he could think of that was blowing him across the world.
The man's confusion and seriousness and conscientious statement of detail ordinarily would have amused Elise; but she had not for months been in a mood to be amused.
A moment later Rutledge was laughing inwardly at himself, his confusion gone, his self-possession perfect. His prosaic accounting for his presence smothered the tiny romantic flame that had kindled in Elise's bosom, and she in turn was taken aback: and the man saw, and knew, and laughed unholily. Not even the most observing eye, fairly limited, would have detected the effect upon her; but he had an unfair advantage—for had he not her letter at that moment snuggled up close to his heart?