"Oh, I delight in them—everything that's life—everything that's London!"
"They don't have private views in Asia, I suppose. But what a pity that for this year, in this fertile city, they are pretty well over."
"Well, next year will do, for I hope you believe we are going to be friends always. Here he comes!" Miss Fancourt continued, before Paul had time to respond.
He made out St. George in the gaps of the crowd, and this perhaps led to his hurrying a little to say: "I hope that doesn't mean that I'm to wait till next year to see you."
"No, no; are we not to meet at dinner on the 25th?" she answered, with an eagerness greater even than his own.
"That's almost next year. Is there no means of seeing you before?"
She stared, with all her brightness. "Do you mean that you would come?"
"Like a shot, if you'll be so good as to ask me!"
"On Sunday, then—this next Sunday?"
"What have I done that you should doubt it?" the young man demanded, smiling.
Miss Fancourt turned instantly to St. George, who had now joined them, and announced triumphantly: "He's coming on Sunday—this next Sunday!"
"Ah, my day—my day too!" said the famous novelist, laughing at Paul Overt.
"Yes, but not yours only. You shall meet in Manchester Square; you shall talk—you shall be wonderful!"
"We don't meet often enough," St. George remarked, shaking hands with his disciple. "Too many things—ah, too many things! But we must make it up in the country in September. You won't forget that you've promised me that?"
