Henry sniffed. A man at a tea! And talking to Cicely! Making up to her, doubtless.
'—a friend of Mr Merchant's, from New York. And what do you think? Mr Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He's been keeping them. Isn't that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this man says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at your age. Henry—just think!'
But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of the man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones.
He leaned over the wheel.
'Cicely—you—you're expecting me to-night?'
'Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I'd like to have you come.'
'But weren't you expecting me?'
'Why—yes, Henry.
'Of course'—stiffly—'if you'd rather I wouldn't come...'
'Please, Henry! You mustn't. Not here on the street!' He stood, flushing darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.'