“I do.”

“Then here is the map of the rendezvous which I have drawn.  Be there promptly.  Good morning.”

CHAPTER XXII

At one o’clock that afternoon a young man earnestly consulting a map might have been seen pursuing his solitary way through Central Park.  Fresh green foliage arched above him, flecking the path with fretted shadow and sunlight; the sweet odor of flowering shrubs saturated the air; the waters of the lake sparkled where swans swept to and fro, snowy wings spread like sails to the fitful June wind.

“This,” he murmured, pausing at a shaded bend in the path, “must be Bench Number One.  I am not to sit on that.  This must be Bench Number Two.  I am to sit on that.  So here I am,” he added nervously, seating himself and looking about him with the caution of a cat in a strange back yard.

There was nobody in sight.  Reassured, he ventured to drop one knee over the other and lean upon his walking stick.  For a few minutes he remained in this noncommittal attitude, alert at every sound, anxious, uncomfortable, dreading he knew not what.  A big, fat, gray squirrel racing noisily across the fallen leaves gave him a shock.  A number of birds came to look at him—­or so it appeared to him, for in the inquisitive scrutiny of a robin he fancied he divined sardonic meaning, and in the blank yellow stare of a purple grackle, a sinister significance out of all proportion to the size of the bird.

“What an absurd position to be in!” he thought.  And suddenly he was seized with a desire to flee.

He didn’t because he had promised not to, but the desire persisted to the point of mania.  Oh, how he could run if he only hadn’t promised not to!  His entire being tingled with the latent possibilities of a burst of terrific speed.  He wanted to scuttle away like a scared rabbit.  The pace of the kangaroo would be slow in comparison.  What a record he could make if he hadn’t promised not to.

He crossed his knees the other way and brooded.  The gray squirrel climbed the bench and nosed his pockets for possible peanuts, then hopped off hopefully toward a distant nursemaid and two children.

Growing more alarmed every time he consulted his watch Carden attempted to stem his rising panic with logic and philosophy, repeating:  “Steady! my son!  Don’t act like this!  You’re not obliged to marry her if you don’t fall in love with her; and if you do, you won’t mind marrying her.  That is philosophy.  That is logic.  Oh, I wonder what will have happened to me by this time to-morrow!  I wish it were this time to-morrow!  I wish it were this time next month!  Then it would be all over.  Then it would be—­”

His muttering speech froze on his lips.  Rooted to his bench he sat staring at a distant figure approaching—­the figure of a young girl in a summer gown.

Nearer, nearer she came, walking with a free-limbed, graceful step, head high, one arm clasping a book.