"Well," Fox resumed, "finding that you had been last seen hiking down the street without male escort, Everett having got mad and declined to play and gone home,—it is to be hoped that he had gone home,—I put out after you, lippety-clippety. All the male inhabitants of Whitby seem to think that is their chief end in life."
"Oh, Fox," said Sally faintly, "they don't."
"They do," Fox insisted; "all except Dick." He laughed. "Speaking of Dick reminds me that I have something to tell you if you don't let me forget it. Well, loping along that way, I came to the historic corner—of what street?"
"River Street. How did you happen to come that way?"
"Followed my nose. You had gone along this street. So did I. You came to the corner. So did I, and I nearly ran into you."
She shivered a little. Fox felt it, and held his arm closer to him.
"Are you cold, Sally?"
"No." She spoke low. "But I'm glad you came, Fox. I'm very glad."
"So am I, for several reasons not to be catalogued at present." They had almost reached Mrs. Stump's. "Oh, I was going to tell you something in connection with Dick. Henrietta's engaged. She wanted me to tell you. So, it is to be presumed, is Dick."
"I'm very glad, but I'm not surprised. I don't suppose Henrietta expected me to be."