As he limped onward, the sun level in his eyes, he heard somebody speak behind him, but did not catch the words or apply the hail to himself. Then, “Mr. Siward!” came the low, breathless voice at his elbow.
His heart stopped as he did. The sun had dazzled his eyes, and when he turned on his crutches he could not see clearly for a second. That past, he looked at Sylvia, looked at her outstretched hand, took it mechanically, still staring at her with only a dazed unbelief in his eyes.
“I am in town for a day,” she said. “Leila Mortimer and I were driving up town from the bank when we saw you; and the next thing that happened was me, on Fifth Avenue, running after you—no, the next thing was my flying leap from the hansom, and my standing there looking down the street and across the square where you sat. Then Leila told me I was probably crazy, and I immediately confirmed her diagnosis by running after you!”
She stood laughing, flushed, sunburned, and breathless, her left hand still in his, her right hand laid over it.
“Oh,” she said, with a sudden change to anxiety, “does it tire you to stand?”
“No. I was going to saunter along.”
“May I saunter with you for a moment? I mean—I only mean, I am glad to see you.”
“Do you think I am going to let you go now?” he asked, astonished.
She looked at him, then her eyes evaded his: “Let us walk a little,” she said, withdrawing her hand, “if you think you are strong enough.”
“Strong! Look, Sylvia!” and he stood unsupported by his crutches, then walked a little way, slowly, but quite firmly. “I am rather a coward about my foot, that is all. I shall not lug these things about after to-day.”