“I believe I’ve startled you, Frank,” she exclaimed, laughing, as she held out her gloved hand in greeting. “Is it so long since we met? Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to come here to your chambers, but I wanted to see you. Mother would be furious if she knew. Why didn’t you answer my letter?”
“Forgive me,” I said in excuse. “I’ve been busy. The life of a daily journalist leaves so very little time for correspondence,” and I invited her to be re-seated in our only armchair.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling dubiously.
“You men are always adepts at the art of excuse,” she remarked.
She was pretty—yes, decidedly pretty. As I sat looking at her, there came back to me vivid recollections of a day that was dead, a day when we had exchanged vows of undying affection and had wandered in secret arm-in-arm along those quiet leafy lanes. She was a girl then, and I not much more than a stripling youth. But we had both grown older now, and other ideas had sprung up in our minds, other jealousies and other loves. Almost four whole years had passed since I had last seen her. She had grown a little more plump and matronly, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look more serious than in her old hoydenish days at Harwell. How time flies! It did not seem four years since that autumn evening when we parted in the golden sunset. Yet how great had the change been in the fortunes of her purse-proud family, and even in my own life.
There was no love between us now. None. The days were long-past since a woman’s touch and words would make me colour like a girl. Even this meeting when she pressed my hand and her eyelids fluttered, did not re-stir within me the chord of love so long untouched. I had heard of her only as a flirt and fortune-hunter, and had read in the newspapers a paragraph announcing her engagement to the elder son of a millionaire ironfounder of Wigan. Nevertheless, a month ago the papers contained a further paragraph stating that the marriage arranged “would not take place.” Since we had parted she had evidently been through many love adventures. Still, she was nevertheless uncommonly good-looking, with a grace of manner that was perfect.
“I’ve often wondered, Frank, what had become of you,” she said, leaning her elbow on the table, raising her veil and looking straight into my eyes. “We were such real good friends long ago that I’ve never failed to entertain pleasant recollections of our friendship. Once or twice I’ve heard of you through your people, and have now and then read your articles in the magazines. Somehow I’ve felt a keen desire for a long time past to see you and have a chat.”
“I feel honoured,” I answered, perhaps a trifle sarcastically, for mine was but a bitter recollection. “It is certainly pleasant to think that one is remembered after these years.” Then, in order to add irony to my words, I added: “I’ve heard you are engaged.”
“I was,” she responded, glancing at me sharply. “But it is broken off.”
“You found some one you liked better, I presume? It is always so.”