On the appointed day--and it was a delicious afternoon and evening,
aflame with sun and in May--Dick left off his work at three p.m., as
Peter came and told me, and departed, and then we went to make our
toilets. At six we met, took a car and stepped down not more than a
short block from the point of meeting. I shall never forget the
sweetness of the air, the something of sadness in the thought of love,
even in this form. The sun was singing its evensong, as were the birds.
But Peter--blessings or curses upon him!--was arrayed as only he could
array himself when he wished to look absolutely disconcerting--more like
an unwashed, uncombed tramp who had been sleeping out for weeks, than
anything else. His hair was over his eyes and ears, his face and hands
dirty, his shoes ditto. He had even blackened one tooth slightly. He had
on a collarless shirt, and yet he was jaunty withal and carried a cane,
if you please, assuming, as he always could and in the most aggravating
way, to be totally unconscious of the figure he cut. At one angle of his
multiplex character the man must have been a born actor.

We waited a block away, concealed by a few trees, and at the exact hour
Dick appeared, hopeful and eager no doubt, and walking and looking
almost all that he hoped--delicate, pale, artistic. The new straw hat!
The pale green "artists'" shirt! His black, wide-buckled belt! The cane!
The dark-brown low shoes! The boutonnière! He was plainly ready for any
fate, his great moment.

And then, before he could get the feeling that his admirer might not be
coming, we descended upon him in all our wretched nonchalance and
unworthiness--out of hell, as it were. We were most brisk, familiar,
affectionate. It was so fortunate to meet him so, so accidentally and
peradventure. The night was so fine. We were out for a stroll in the
park, to eat afterward. He must come along.