As Johnny Blair approached number 318, Bancroft Road, a little before
seven o'clock that bland March evening, he bore within his hardy breast
certain delicacies, remorses, doubts, and revulsions. But all these were
transcended by his overmastering determination to see this superb and
long-worshipped maiden near at hand.
Bancroft Road proved to be a docile suburban thoroughfare, lined with
comfortable villas and double houses, each standing a little back from
the street with a small garden in front. A primrose-coloured afterglow
lingered in the sky, and the gas lights along the pavement still burned
pale and white. Just as the Rhodes Scholar passed number 302 he saw a
feminine figure run down the steps of a house fifty yards farther on,
cross the pavement, and drop a letter into the red pillar box standing
there. Even at that distance, he distinguished a lively slimness in
the girlish outline that could belong to no other than the Incomparable
Kathleen. He hastened his step, casting hesitance to the wind. But she
had already run back into the house.
It would have added to the problems Mr. Blair was pondering could he
have read the letter which had just dropped into the post-box. Perhaps
it will somewhat advance the course of the narrative to give the reader
a glimpse of it.