Before Miriam could reply, a young man who had discovered her from afar advanced with what was evidently an unusual degree of precipitancy.
“Miss Whiting, I am delighted,” he puffed. “I have been looking for you everywhere. I was in town, and I went to that bric-a-brac shop. The fan is undoubtedly a real Jacques Callot.”
“I was sure,” she murmured, “with your knowledge and taste, that you could decide at once. Of course, I did not know.”
“And—and——” hesitated the youth, “I hope that you will not be offended. I told them to send it to you here. If you will accept it?”
“How terrible—and how kind of you!” Miriam cried, holding out both hands, as if led by an irresistible impulse. “But you are so generous. All your friends have discovered that. I always think of St. Francis sharing his cloak with the blind beggar.”
“So good of you,” he stuttered. “It’s nothing. You must be tired. Can’t I bring a chair for you? I am going to get one.”
As the young man turned hurriedly away, Miriam grasped her companion’s arm.
“I never thought that he would give it to me. Never, Janet—honestly,” she exclaimed, with earnestness.
“The way of the transgressor is likely to be strewn—with surprises.”
“I only thought of saying something pleasant at a dinner.”