“And you have no desire to see me again?” I interrupted, in a tone of bitter disappointment.
“If such were the case, ours would be a very extraordinary friendship, wouldn’t it?” and she lifted her eyes to mine with a kindly look.
“Then I am to take it that my companionship on this walk has not been distasteful to you?” I asked anxiously.
She inclined her head with dignified air, saying. “Certainly. I feel that this evening I have at least found a friend—a pleasant thought when one is comparatively friendless.”
“And as your friend—your devoted friend—I ask to be permitted to see you sometimes,” I said earnestly, for, lingering at her side, I was very loth to part from her. “If I can ever be of any assistance, command me.”
“You are very kind,” she answered, with a slight tremor in her voice. “I shall remember your words always.” Then, putting forth her well-gloved hand, as we stood upon the kerb of the High Street, she added, “It is getting late. We’ve taken such a long time across the Park that I must drive home;” and she made a gesture to a passing hansom.
“Before we part,” I said, “I will give you a card, so that should you require any service of me you will know where to write;” and, as we stood beneath the street lamp, I drew out a card and, with a pencil I took from my vest-pocket, scribbled my address.
In silence she watched, but just as I had finished she suddenly gripped my hand, uttering a loud cry of amazement.
“What’s that you have there?” she demanded. “Let me see it!”
Next instant—before, indeed, I could be aware of her intention—she had snatched the pencil from my grasp, and was examining it closely beneath the gaslight.