Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon?

If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me.

"But how do you know he is coming at all?" mocked a small voice within her.

But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left. Other people, perhaps, but
not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married,
that lovely fascinating girl.

"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"

"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay
that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue"--no, pink--
"muslin frock, holding on a big cream"--no, black--"straw hat. But it's
years ago now."

"She's as lovely as ever, more so if anything."

Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she
saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their
palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who was
it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a burglar,
for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart leapt; it seemed
to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized him.

"Good evening, Miss Beryl," said the voice softly.

"Good evening."