When he called after her, she stopped and looked back. He had risen, and had come to the library doorway. "Don't run away like that, please," he implored.
"You seem to be awfully busy," said Pat. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just coming in to get a book."
"What book?"
Pat was puzzled for a moment. "Oh, just a mystery book—anything," she said, finally.
"Did you read my story in this morning's Recorder?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes; it was fine. Uncle Henry said it was magnificent. Just enough play of the imagination to give it color, and told with such simplicity that everyone could understand."
"Thanks," he said. "I'm glad you liked it. At first, I was afraid the falling of that meteor in Times Square would kill it. But it didn't. It has made the New York public more open-minded for what your Uncle Henry is going to spring on them tomorrow night, at Radio Center. You'll be there, of course. Shall I see you?"
"If I'm free," Pat replied.
"Meaning that you're not free," he remarked. He passed into a thoughtful mood but quickly snapped out of it. "Yes; I—I understand perfectly. Your Uncle Henry told me about the Prince and yourself this afternoon—about your coming engagement—and I'm afraid I'm not able to take it in yet. I don't see why you ever bothered about me at all." He stopped short, and began staring at the floor in deep contemplation.
"I don't know myself why I ever did—why I ever bothered about you," she returned, in a low, tremulous voice. "I had a feeling—well, I had a sort of feeling—" She, too, stopped short.