Side by side we proceeded down the path, through the gates and out into the street. A neat brougham was drawn up alongside the kerb and towards this she made her way. I opened the door and held it for her to get in. But before she did so she turned to me and stretched out her little hand.
"Will you tell me your name that I may know to whom I am indebted?"
"My name is Hatteras. Richard Hatteras, of Thursday Island, Torres Straits. I am staying at the 'Quebec.'"
"Thank you, Mr. Hatteras, again and again. I shall always be grateful to you for your gallantry!"
This was attaching too much importance to such a simple action, and I was about to tell her so, when she spoke again.
"I think I ought to let you know who I am. My name is Wetherell, and my father is the Colonial Secretary. I'm sure he will be quite as grateful to you as I am. Good-bye!"
She seemed to forget that we had already shaken hands, for she extended her own a second time. I took it and tried to say something polite, but she stepped into her carriage and shut the door before I could think of anything, and next moment she was being whirled away up the street.
Now old fogies and disappointed spinsters can say what they please about love at first sight. I'm not a romantic sort of person—far from it—the sort of life I had hitherto led was not of a nature calculated to foster that sort of thing. But if I wasn't over head and ears in love when I resumed my walk that evening, well, I've never known what the sensation is.
A daintier, prettier, sweeter little angel surely never
