“You see, I don’t know people like Evelyn or the rest,” I added, doubtfully, “and so they don’t seem real to me.”
“Yes, that must be why they don’t seem real to you,” said Octavia, slowly. “But I wanted to write a story that should seem real to every one.”
I had stupidly put a new doubt into her mind about her book; but something happened just then to drive all thoughts of the book out of our heads.
A gaunt female figure crossed the street in front of us, crossed on a run, with true country caution, although no vehicle bore down upon her, and a policeman stood ready to escort her. Could one mistake the crisp black curls and the high cheek-bones? If so, the gait with its queer little hitch was unmistakable! So was the ancient cashmere shawl and the perennial purple roses in the black velvet bonnet.
“Loveday!” gasped even near-sighted Octavia.
Loveday, who had not been beyond the Port for twenty years! I was actually numb with bewilderment, and when Octavia attempted to run across the street in pursuit of her, the policeman stopped her; a throng of vehicles was coming now, and we must wait. I saw the purple roses nodding above the heads of the crowd, as the tall, angular figure strode onward.
Was the whole household of Groundnut Hill Farm turning its steps surreptitiously toward the great metropolis? I wondered should we meet Cyrus or Dave around the next corner?
CHAPTER VIII
A CHANCE MEETING
“Could it have been Loveday?” said Octavia, who never trusted her near-sighted eyes.
I said that I was very strongly under the impression that I knew Loveday by sight. Also that if I had not seen her face, or recognized her clothes, I should have known that she savored too strongly of Palmyra soil to have come from anywhere else.