But she smiled, and declared that she only guessed it to be so, as I had half an hour ago spoken of a recent winter spent in Italy. Then, after admiring it, she placed it down, and again turned, sighed heavily, and bent over the Directory, which was still open upon the table.
As she did so, she suddenly burst forth—
“At last! I’ve found it. Look! there can be no mistake. It isn’t Ellerdale Street, but Ellerdale Road!”
And bending beside her I read where she pointed with her slim finger the words, “16, Popejoy, Mrs”
“Is that your aunt’s name?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And yours?” I asked.
But she pursed up her lips and did not seem inclined to impart this knowledge to me.
“My name is really of no account,” she said. “We shall not meet again.”
“Not meet again?” I cried, for the thought of losing a friend so beautiful and so charming was an exceedingly unhappy one. “Why shall we not meet? You are going to live in London now, you say,” and taking a card from my cigarette-case I handed it to her.