When he started across Central Park the sun was just setting, and he
turned off the main path and dropped down on a bench to rest for a
moment. He had acquired a taste for sunsets at a tender age, having
watched them from many a steamer's prow. He knew how the harbor of
Hongkong brimmed like a goblet of red wine, how Fujiyama's snow-capped
peak turned rose, he knew how beautiful the sun could look through a
barrage of fire. But it was of none of these that he thought as he sat on
the park bench, his arms extended along the back, his long legs stretched
out, and his eyes on a distant smokestack. He was thinking of a country
stile and a girl in white and green, in whose limpid eyes he watched the
reflected light of the most wonderful of all his sunsets.
For the third time since leaving the office, he consulted his watch.
Six-thirty! Another hour and a half must be got through before he could
see her.
A rustle of leaves behind him made him look up, but before he could turn
his head two hands were clapped over his eyes. Investigation proved them
to be feminine, and he promptly took them captive.
"It's Rose?" he guessed.
"Let me go!" she laughed; "somebody will see you.
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