“No, I didn’t know, exactly,” she smiled. “For a time I thought—I suppose it is the faithful little Southern girl you left behind you, the one whose letters I used to bring you.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, yes, once when you were delirious you even paid me the compliment of saying that I looked like her.”
For a fleeting instant Hamilton had an impression that Dorothy was laughing at him—trying to laugh or trying not to laugh, he could not tell which.
“I did say that—and I do. It was not delirium.”
She rose and Hamilton knew that his afternoon had come to an end.
“No, don’t take me home. Just see me to the bus line. I’d rather leave you that way,” she was smiling.
“This afternoon,” he said, “I shall always remember. It’s been—” from somewhere a phrase popped into his head—“‘a sheaf of golden moments.’”
Dorothy darted a quick look of surprise.
“‘With here and there,’” she continued, “‘a scarlet memory.’”