One afternoon, soon after his
return, he put on his frock-coat and drove in
a hansom to pay a call upon Hilda Burgoyne,
who still lived at her old number, off Bedford
Square. He and Miss Burgoyne had been fast
friends for a long time. He had first noticed
her about the corridors of the British Museum,
where he read constantly. Her being there
so often had made him feel that he would
like to know her, and as she was not an
inaccessible person, an introduction was
not difficult. The preliminaries once over,
they came to depend a great deal upon each
other, and Wilson, after his day's reading,
often went round to Bedford Square for his
tea. They had much more in common than
their memories of a common friend. Indeed,
they seldom spoke of him. They saved that
for the deep moments which do not come
often, and then their talk of him was mostly
silence. Wilson knew that Hilda had loved
him; more than this he had not tried to know.
It was late when Wilson reached Hilda's
apartment on this particular December
afternoon, and he found her alone. She sent
for fresh tea and made him comfortable, as she
had such a knack of making people comfortable.
"How good you were to come back
before Christmas! I quite dreaded the
Holidays without you. You've helped me over a
good many Christmases." She smiled at him gayly.
"As if you needed me for that! But, at
any rate, I needed YOU. How well you are
looking, my dear, and how rested.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107