My Lady Valentine

A WEEK later, well before the appointed hour, Caleb Whitman was at the table, which he and Radding always occupied, under the cuckoo clock. From time to time he peered intently down the aisle between the rows of tables overhung with festoons of paper flowers, in search of his friend. He neglected to unfold the evening paper he had bought at the door. He ignored the menu which the German waiter had thrust before him. He merely waited, with impatience in which there was no ill nature, but only eager expectancy. And then, at last, he saw Radding leisurely strolling down the room.