"Oh, yes, it is! Oh, it is, it is!" he cried, and without warning sat down and burst into loud tears.
Six flabbergasted men watched him in silence for a moment. Then the sergeant patted him kindly on the back and said, idiotically, "It's all right, son!"
But the young man only rocked himself to and fro and wept the more.
"Come on, come on," rallied the constable, coaxing. (Really, a dreadful exhibition on a nice bright morning.) "That won't do anyone any good, you know. Best pull yourself together — sir," he added, noting the quality of the handkerchief which the young man had produced.
"A relation of yours?" the sergeant inquired, his voice suitably modulated from its former businesslike pitch.
The young man shook his head.
"Oh, just a friend?"
"She was so good to me, so good!"
"Well, at least you'll be able to help us. We were beginning to wonder about her. You can tell us who she is."
"She's my — hostess."