“An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at this time of year. When I got your telegram—”
“I suppose you were surprised. To think of being in New York in August!—and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot wave. I haven't any shopping to do—any real shopping, that is, though I invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a cab. But I came just to see you.”
“How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true.” The young man spoke sincerely.
“It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down and be comfortable,—at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't order anything from the hotel—Auntie would see it in the bill. But if you'd prefer a cup of tea—and I could manage some toast.”
“No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing—with you to share them. How thoughtful of you!”
She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly across at his hostess.
“There's something I want you to do for me,” she answered, sitting composedly back in her chair, in an attitude as graceful as comfortable.
“Nothing would make me happier.”
“Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?” she asked.
“No,” replied Larcher, wonderingly.