e wondered if he might ask her the next time she came
to go for a walk one day. Would it be proper--the Thing? Would she be
pleased to look on him as a mature Don Juan, laying snares for her
pretty feet? Would it be "rushing it" too much, and would she build
extravagant hopes thereon? For Henry Brown was careful and, remembering
his early love, did not intend to commit himself until he knew a little
more about her. He was most certainly not in love, but he was thinking
about it. And when a man of his age and in his position thinks about it,
any nice presentable girl who comes his way may safely speculate on a
formal proposal, provided sufficient opportunities offer themselves
or ... are offered. This may not be romance according to the rules of
fiction, but it is life.

However, for three weeks there were no opportunities, and the pretty
damsel did not bring her sunshine into the cab-office. This did not
plunge Mr. Brown into the depths of despair or anything so foolish. He
went about his business as usual, a little distrait it may be, hoping
occasionally that he would meet her again, and in idle moments revolving
schemes to achieve this end. The difficulty was that he did not know
where she lived, for on both occasions the taxi had been ordered to be
at a hotel, and had driven once to another hotel and once to a theater.
(He had casually questioned his drivers on the subject.) Hence he had
nothing to go on, and had to wait on the chances of fortune.

But a third meeting came at last, for he had the luck to meet her in a
tea-shop. She happened to sit down at the same table, and with a
desperate diffidence Mr. Brown recalled himself to her. The young woman
was very obliging and perfectly at her ease. Oh, but yes! She remembered
him perfectly--his cabs were so much nicer than other people's--and
after a becoming hesitation she allowed him to pay for an ice.

From that time he was in the toils. In the course of their conversation
he ventured to ask where she lived. She did not take any notice of the
question, and he was too shy to press her. But on parting, a casual
whisper thrilled his receptive ear: "I always promenade on a Sunday. If
you really wish, I shall meet you at the steps of the National Gallery
at half past two. You are discreet, _nicht wahr_?" Mr. Brown, who
translated the concluding phrase as a term of endearment or at least
friendliness, began to feel that life was well worth living. He met her
on Sunday,