She had expected to meet someone, and someone had not come.
His chivalric impulses, leaping to meet the occasion's call, bade him substitute a splendid replacement—himself, for the laggard tryst-breaker. Even though he knew that that touch of the hand must inaugurate the second volume of the day's romance.
He came behind her and spoke.
"Hasn't he come?" He did not like himself for saying "he"—but he said it. It belonged to the second volume.
She turned with a start and a lighting of eyes and lips that almost taught him pity. Not quite: for the poet's nature is hard to teach.
"He?" she said, decently covering the light of lips and eyes as soon as might be. "It was a friend. She was to come from Sevenoaks. She ought to be here. We were to have a little picnic together." She glanced at her basket. "I didn't know you were getting out here. Why—" The question died on trembling lips.
"Why?" he repeated. There was a pause.
