“Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. He's proud of them.”
Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent for a moment; then rose, with the words:
“Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit garden. When shall I see you again?”
“Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't find me here.”
“I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I shall have them day after to-morrow. Let's see—I'm engaged for that day. How will the next day suit you?”
“All right. Come the next day if you like.”
“That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch together.”
“Just as you please.”
“One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!”
“Good night!”