"Well, this is a pleasure!" he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet
her.
"Hello, Tom!" she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. "You
needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of
course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We
have at least an hour to ourselves."
"An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at
this time of year. When I got your telegram--"
"I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York in
August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot
wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I
invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a
cab. But I came just to see you."
"How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true."
The young man spoke sincerely.
"It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down
and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's
some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't
order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if
you'd prefer a cup of tea--and I could manage some toast."
"No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing--with you to share
them. How thoughtful of you!"
She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small
table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly
across at his hostess.
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