He really meant to call on her some day and talk things over. But
days, and weeks, and finally months slipped away. And somehow, in
thinking of her and of his promise, there now seemed very little left
for them to talk about. After all they had said to each other nearly
all there was to be said, there on the Elevated platform that April
morning. Besides he had so many, many things to do; so many pleasures
promised and accepted, visits to college friends, a fishing trip with
his father,--really there seemed to be no hour in the long vacation
unengaged.
He always wanted to see her when he thought of her; he really meant to
find a moment to do it, too. But there seemed to be no moment
suitable.
Even when he was back in Cambridge he thought about her occasionally,
and planned, vaguely, a trip to New York so that he might redeem his
promise to her.
He took it out in thinking.
At Christmas, however, he sent her a wrist-watch, a dainty French
affair of gold and enamel; and a contrite note excusing himself for
the summer delinquencies and renewing his promise to call on her.
The Dead Letter Office returned watch and letter.