"I'm glad I saw you," said the girl; "I hope you won't forget me. I am late; I must go—I suppose—"
"Indeed I won't forget you," he assured her warmly, shaking the slender black-gloved hand again.
He meant it when he said it. Besides she was so pretty and frank and honest with him. Few girls he knew in his own caste were as attractive; none as simple, as direct.
He really meant to call on her some day and talk things over. But days, and weeks, and finally months slipped away. And somehow, in thinking of her and of his promise, there now seemed very little left for them to talk about. After all they had said to each other nearly all there was to be said, there on the Elevated platform that April morning. Besides he had so many, many things to do; so many pleasures promised and accepted, visits to college friends, a fishing trip with his father,—really there seemed to be no hour in the long vacation unengaged.
He always wanted to see her when he thought of her; he really meant to find a moment to do it, too. But there seemed to be no moment suitable.
Even when he was back in Cambridge he thought about her occasionally, and planned, vaguely, a trip to New York so that he might redeem his promise to her.
He took it out in thinking.
At Christmas, however, he sent her a wrist-watch, a dainty French affair of gold and enamel; and a contrite note excusing himself for the summer delinquencies and renewing his promise to call on her.
The Dead Letter Office returned watch and letter.