“You were always kind,” said the man. “Let me spread my overcoat on the bench—the stone is cold. You have been walking, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I don’t walk much—it tires me easily.” She sat down, loosening the furs at her throat, Breathing quickly; her eyes searched his face, half dazed, half questioning. “But where have you been?” she asked. “Were you not in Africa?”
“Yes. I have been home only a few days—I don’t wonder you are surprised finding me here; people don’t often sit in the park at this time—but I find it cozier than the station across the way. I came out on the hill early this noon to look up old friends, and I found I’d an hour to wait.”
“Am I not an old friend?” she asked. “Why have you not been to see—us?”
“I hope I may count you such,” said the man. “I knew your husband, too, many years ago; but he said that you were ill; I saw him this morning.”
“I have been ill,” she answered, quickly, and looked away, pushing back her hair with the little movement he knew so well.
“I am sorry for that,” he said. “I heard of your loss—I did not lose sight entirely of my friends. Your little boy,” he added, his voice softening—“your little boy——”
“My baby died,” she said.
“I know—I heard of it—I knew how keenly you could suffer. But I knew, too, how brave you were——”
“Oh!” she said, catching the lace at her throat. “If he—if my baby had lived—I might—I could——”