Constance suddenly became aware that her guest was still standing; she moved along and made place on the wall. “Won’t you sit down? Oh, excuse me,” she added with an anxious glance at his clothes, “I’m afraid you’ll get dusty; it would be better to bring a chair.” She nodded toward the terrace.
He sat down beside her.
“I am only too honored; the last time I came you did not invite me to sit on the wall.”
“I am sorry if I appeared inhospitable, but you came so unexpectedly, Mr. Hilliard.”
“Why ‘Mr. Hilliard’? When you wrote you called me ‘dear Jerry’.”
“That was a slip of the pen; I hope you will excuse it.”
“When I wrote I called you ‘Miss Wilder’; that was a slip of the pen too. What I meant to say was ‘dear Constance’.”
She let this pass without comment.
“I have an apology to make.”
“Yes?”
“Once, a long time ago, I insulted you; I called you a kid. I take it back; I swallow the word. You were never a kid.”
“Oh,” she dimpled, and then, “I don’t believe you remember a thing about it!”
“Connie Wilder, a little girl in a blue sailor suit, and two nice fat braids of yellow hair dangling down her back with red bows on the ends—very convenient for pulling.”
“You are making that up. You don’t remember.”
“Ah, but I do! And as for the racket you were making that afternoon, it was, if you will permit the expression, infernal. I remember it distinctly; I was trying to cram for a math. exam.”
“It wasn’t I. It was your bad little sisters and brothers and cousins.”
“It was you, dear Constance. I saw you with my own eyes; I heard you with my own ears.”
“Bobbie Hilliard was pulling my hair.”
“I apologize on his behalf, and with that we will close the incident. There is something much more important which I wish to talk about.”
“Have you seen Nannie?” She offered this hastily not to allow a pause.
“Yes, dear Constance, I have seen Nannie.”
“Call me ‘Miss Wilder’ please.”
“I’ll be hanged if I will! You’ve been calling me Tony and Jerry and anything else you chose ever since you knew me—and long before for the matter of that.”
Constance waived the point.
“Was she glad to see you?”
“She’s always glad to see me.”
“Oh, don’t be so provoking! Give me the particulars. Was she surprised? How did you explain the telegrams and letters and Gustavo’s stories? I should think the Hotel Sole d’Oro at Riva and the walking trip with the Englishman must have been difficult.”
“Not in the least; I told the truth.”
“The truth! Not all of it?”
“Every word.”
“How could you?” There was reproach in her accent.
“It did come hard; I’m a little out of practice.”
“Did you tell her about—about me?”
“I had to, Constance. When it came to the necessity of squaring all of Gustavo’s yarns, my imagination gave out. Anyway, I had to tell her out of self-defence; she was so superior. She said it was just like a man to muddle everything up. Here I’d been ten days in the same town with the most charming girl in the world, and hadn’t so much as discovered her name; whereas if she had been managing it—You see how it was; I had to let her know that I was quite capable of taking care of myself without any interference from her. I even—anticipated a trifle.”
“How?”
“She said she was engaged. I told her I was too.”
“Indeed!” Constance’s tone was remote. “To whom?”
“The most charming girl in the world.”
“May I ask her name?”
He laid his hand on his heart in a gesture reminiscent of Tony. “Costantina.”
