"It really begins to look inevitable, doesn't it?"
She smiled.
"Three times, you know, is usually considered significant," he added laughingly. "It doesn't dismay you, does it?"
She laughed, resting her cheek against the upholstered wing of her chair and looked at him with shy but undisguised pleasure.
"You haven't changed a single bit, Athalie," he declared.
"No, I haven't changed."
"Do you remember our last meeting—on the Elevated?"
"Yes."
"Lord!" he said; "that was four years ago. Do you realise it?"
"Yes."
A slight colour grew on his cheeks.
"I was a piker, wasn't I?"
After a moment, looking down at her idly clasped hands lying on her knees: "I hoped you would come," she said gravely.
"I wanted to. I don't suppose you'll believe that; but I did.... I don't know how it happened that I didn't make good. There were so many things to do, all sorts of engagements,—and the summer vacation seemed ended before I could understand that it had begun."—He scowled in retrospection, and she watched his expression out of her dark blue eyes—clear, engaging eyes, sweet as a child's.
"That's no excuse," he concluded. "I should have kept my word to you—and I really wanted to.... And I was not quite such a piker as you thought me."
"I didn't think that of you, C. Bailey, Junior."
"You must have!"
"I didn't."
"That's because you're so decent, but it makes my infamy the blacker.... Anyway I did write you and did send you the strap-watch. I sent both to Fifty-fourth Street. The Dead Letter Office returned them to me."... He drew from his inner pocket a letter and a packet. "Here they are."
She sat up slowly and very slowly took the letter from his hand.
"Four years old," he commented. "Isn't that the limit?" And he began to tear the sealed paper from the packet.
"What a shame," he went on contritely, "that you wore that old gun-metal watch of mine so long. I was mortified when I saw it on your wrist that day—"
"I wear it still," she said with a smile.
"Nonsense!" he glanced at her bare wrist and laughed.
"I do," she insisted. "It is only because I have just bathed and am prepared for the night that I am not wearing it now."
He looked up, incredulous, then his expression changed subtly.
"Is that so?" he asked.
But the hint of seriousness confused her and she merely nodded.
He had freed the case from the sealed paper and now he laid it on her knees, saying: "Thank the Lord I'm not such a piker now as I was, anyway. I hope you'll wear it, Athalie, and fire that other affair out of your back window."
"There is no back window," she said, raising her charming eyes to his,—"there's only an air-shaft.... Am I to open it?—I mean this case?"
"It is yours."
She opened it daintily.
"Oh, C. Bailey, Junior!" she said very gently. "You mustn't do this!"
"Why?"
"It's too beautiful. Isn't it?"
"Nonsense, Athalie. Here, I'll wind it and set it for you. This is how it works—" pulling out the jewelled lever and setting it by the tin alarm-clock on the mantel. Then he wound it, unclasped the woven gold wrist-band, took her reluctant hand, and, clasping the jewel over her wrist, snapped the catch.
For a few moments her fair head remained bent as she gazed in silence at the tiny moving hands. Then, looking up:
"Thank you, C. Bailey, Junior," she said, a little solemnly perhaps.
He laughed, somewhat conscious of the slight constraint: "You're welcome, Athalie. Do you really like it?"
"It is wonderfully beautiful."
"Then I'm perfectly happy and contented—or I will be when you read that letter and admit I'm not as much of a piker as I seemed."
She laughed and coloured: "I never thought that of you. I only—missed you."
"Really?"
"Yes," she said innocently.
For a second he looked rather grave, then again, conscious of his own constraint, spoke gaily, lightly:
"You certainly are the real thing in friendship. You are far too generous to me."
She said: "Incidents are not frequent enough in my life to leave me unimpressed. I never knew any other boy of your sort. I suppose that is why I never forgot you."
Her simplicity pricked the iridescent and growing bubble of his vanity, and he laughed, discountenanced by her direct explanation of how memory chanced to retain him. But it did not occur to him to ask himself how it happened that, in all these years, and in a life so happily varied, so delightfully crowded as his own had always been, he had never entirely forgotten her.
"I wish you'd open that letter and read it," he said. "It's my credential. Date and postmark plead for me."
But she had other plans for its unsealing and its perusal, and said so.
"Aren't you going to read it, Athalie?"
"Yes—when you go."
"Why?"
"Because—it will make your visit seem a little longer," she said frankly.
"Athalie, are you really glad to see me?"
She looked up as though he were jesting, and caught in his eye another gleam of that sudden seriousness which had already slightly confused her. For a moment only, both felt the least sense of constraint, then the instinct that had forbidden her to admit any significance in his seriousness, parted her lips with that engaging smile which he had begun to know so well, and to await with an expectancy that approached fascination.
"Peach turnovers," she said. "Do you remember? If I had not been glad to see you in those days I would not have gone into the kitchen to bring you one.... And I have already told you that I am unchanged.... Wait! I am changed.... I am very much wealthier." And she laughed her delicious, unembarrassed laugh of a child.
He laughed, too, then shot a glance around the shabby room.
"What
