I was beset with fears lest Mr. Brett should have left New York, or
lest, if still in town, he might be surprised or shocked at my taking
him at his word.

I was past being hungry now, but my head ached and I felt dull and
stupid. There was hardly anyone in the Turkish Room, for all the world
of the Waldorf-Astoria was lunching. I sat watching the door, watching
the door, until I seemed to have been in that place doing that one
thing and nothing else for years. My eyelids would keep dropping, and
my thoughts slipping away as if they flowed past me on a slow stream. I
caught them back again and again, but at last I forgot and let them go.

The next thing I knew I was raising my head with a jerk, and opening my
eyes to look straight into those of Mr. Brett. It was he, there was no
doubt of that, and yet he was different. In my dreamy state, I couldn't
think how for an instant, but as I came to myself I saw it was all a
question of dress. He had, perhaps, been making money in journalism,
for he was no longer good looking in _spite_ of his clothes. He had the
most excellent grey flannels, or something of the sort; just the right
kind of collar (I know it must be right, for Stan always wears it) and
a waistcoat Potter himself might have envied. I didn't exactly think of
these things then, but I must have unconsciously taken them all in, in
a flash, for I knew them afterwards.

By the time the flash had passed we were shaking hands, and he was
saying in his nice voice how awfully sorry he was to have kept me
waiting. He had been at the Club, but owing to a stupid mistake there
had been some delay in his getting my letter.

I was even more pleased to see him than I had thought I was going to
be. I felt as if I had known him all my life, and he looked so strong
and handsome, and dependable, that I couldn't bear to take my eyes off
his face, lest I should wake up and find him gone--because I'd been
dreaming him.

"I'll tell you all about everything, if you'll sit down," I said, but
instead of doing as I asked, he enquired with a queer, worried
expression on his face whether I had had lunch.

"No, nor breakfast either," I replied quite gaily, but with a watery
smile.

"Good heavens," said he, going as red as if I had accused him of
snatching it from my lips. "Then you must have both together, before
you begin to tell me anything."

"We might go out and have a sandwich somewhere," I suggested.

"There's nothing the matt