“I thought it must be you,” Raymond was saying nervously. “And yet I could not be sure. Somehow I never thought of you and Paris as being in any way compatible, and yet–––” He broke off; it had been on the tip of his tongue to say that she had never looked sweeter or more desirable.
His overwhelming conceit suddenly woke the wish in his heart to know if she still cared, or if she had forgotten him, and a little flush crossed his face and his eyes grew tender as they met the tragedy of hers; he looked hastily round.
“We can’t talk here. Will you come to a café? There is so much I should like to say to you. When did you come over? What are you doing here?”
They were walking slowly along, the man’s head bent ardently towards her.
He had once told Micky that this girl was the only woman he had ever loved, and perhaps it was right––as he accounted love.
He took her to a café––one where there would be nobody likely to recognise him; he ordered coffee and biscuits.
“Now we can talk undisturbed,” he said; he moved his chair closer to Esther’s––he laid his hand on hers.
She did not move or try to evade his touch; she just looked down at his hand for a moment and then up at the handsome face which had for so long meant all the world to her.
“I never thought we should meet again here of all places,” he said in his soft voice. “How long ago does it seem to you since we said good-bye?”