“MR. HORACE MEADE.”
“Good morning. I have been waiting to speak to you. I am so glad that you are come at last.”
The owner of the umbrella looked excited; his artistic eccentricity was to the fore; he held a scrap of grey paper in his left hand; his gaze was fixed on Embrance.
She said no word of greeting, but dropped the dictionary that she had been guarding with such care.
He picked it up for her. “Let me carry it.”
“Thank you. I do not like to trouble you”—and the rain trickled down on to her gloves and cuffs as she held out her hand towards him.
“Not at all,” said Horace, politely, as he pocketed the book, regardless of the mud. “The fact is, if you don’t mind listening, I’ve come to make an apology.”
Embrance glanced at the piece of paper that he was beginning to unfold, and the blood rushed to her cheeks.
“You see,” explained Horace, speaking very fast, “I don’t want to be a worry to you, only I should like you to know that this got put away with a heap of papers, and I only opened it last night. I hadn’t a notion yesterday that you had written to me. I wish I had. You are getting so wet. Will you let me hold my umbrella over you? It will be better so. Thank you,” as she murmured something that was not a refusal.