“He—he says in his letter that he is coming to see me,” said the widow, in a low voice, “to—to—this evening.”
“Coming to see you?” repeated Mr. Clark, sharply. “What for?”
“To talk over old times, he says,” was the reply. “I expect he has altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow—and so dashing. After I gave him up he didn't care what he did. The last I heard of him he had gone abroad.”
Mr. Clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical fashion, began to build little castles with the draughts. He was just about to add to an already swaying structure when a thundering rat-tat-tat at the door dispersed the draughts to the four corners of the room. The servant opened the door, and the next moment ushered in Mrs. Bowman's visitor.
A tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of mignonette in his button-hole, met the critical gaze of Mr. Clark. He paused at the door and, striking an attitude, pronounced in tones of great amazement the Christian name of the lady of the house.
“Mr. Tucker!” said the widow, blushing.
“The same girl,” said the visitor, looking round wildly, “the same as the day she left me. Not a bit changed; not a hair different.”
He took her extended hand and, bending over it, kissed it respectfully.
“It's—it's very strange to see you again, Mr. Tucker,” said Mrs. Bowman, withdrawing her hand in some confusion.
“Mr. Tucker!” said that gentleman, reproachfully; “it used to be Charlie.”