“Yes; a gentleman who was meeting me just as I fell, and whose face I am sure I had never before seen in Richmond, ran forward, lifted me up, got me my book and veil, and, in short, he was so graceful, and his voice was so gentle, when he said ‘Excuse me,’ as he lifted me from the ground, that—I confess—I—” And dropping her eyes, and with an inimitable simper on her countenance, she made as though straightening, between thumb and forefinger, the hem of her handkerchief.
“Ah, you are the same dear old Alice still,” cried Lucy, leaning forward, and, with laughing lips, kissing her on the cheek. “And you fell in love with the graceful stranger?”
“Yes, indeed,—that is, as much as was becoming in a young woman of eighteen summers. By the way, Lucy, you too have reached that dignified age since I last saw you. Don’t you begin to feel ancient? I do. We shall soon be old maids.”
“And the romantic stranger, in that event?” asked I. “He, I suppose, will go hurl himself dismally off Mayo’s bridge. By the way, yonder he comes now.”
I am aware that the barest insinuation of the kind is flouted and scouted by the lovelier portion of mankind; but among men it is always frankly admitted that women are not destitute of curiosity.
“Yonder he comes now,” said I, languidly, as one who had dined well. Two lovely heads shot instantly out of the window.
“Where? where?”
“There,” said I; “that tall chap with the heavy beard, on the other side of the street.”
“Well, upon my word,” cried Alice, “’tis the very man! How on earth did you know it was he? You didn’t? Really and truly? How strange! Oh, if he would only cross the street and walk past our window! There, I believe—no—yes, here he comes across! How nice! What on earth makes him carry his hat in his hand?”
“Is that really your graceful friend?” asked I, growing interested.