“Nearly half an hour late.”
“Not at all. Four-thirty was the time.”
“And now it is three minutes to five.”
“Making twenty-seven minutes that I’ve been sitting here waiting for a welcome.”
“Waiting? Oh, Miss Brewster—”
“I’m not Miss Brewster. I’m a voice in the wilderness.”
“Then, Voice, you haven’t been there more than one minute. A voice isn’t a voice until it makes a noise like a voice. Q.E.D.”
“There is something in that argument,” she admitted. “But why didn’t you come up and look for me?”
“Does one look for a sound?”
“Please don’t be so logical. It tires my poor little brain. You might at least have called.”