She scarcely knew, indeed, whether she was talking to Mr.Peyton or to William Rodney.
But to one who, by degrees, assumed the shape of an elderly man with a mustache, she described how she had arrived in London that very afternoon, and how she had taken a cab and driven through the streets.
Mr.Peyton, an editor of fifty years, bowed his bald head repeatedly, with apparent understanding.

At least, he understood that she was very young and pretty, and saw that she was excited, though he could not gather at once from her words or remember from his own experience what there was to be excited about.

"Were there any buds on the trees ?" he asked.

"Which line did she travel by ?" He was cut short in these amiable inquiries by her desire to know whether he was one of those who read, or one of those who look out of the window?
Mr.Peyton was by no means sure which he did.

He rather thought he did both.