Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home.
“I’ve been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You ARE absent-minded.”
Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise.
“I thought I’d come and meet you.”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said.
“Did I startle you?”
“You did a bit,” he admitted.
He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight pages of it.
The fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening, when they went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked that one day more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thought depress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it would be delightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for one in London. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said it would be very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was looking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred not to be hampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowed Miss Wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be off.
“You wouldn’t talk like that if you loved me,” she cried.