Memoirs of a Midget by Walter de la Mare — Read

There had been no need to reserve the small hours for these ruminations. The next few days were wet and windy; every glance at the streaming panes cast my mind into a sort of vacancy. The wind trumpeted smoke into the room; I could fix my mind on nothing. Then the weather faired. There came "a red sky at night," and Spica flashing secrets to me across the darkness; and that suppertime I referred as casually as possible to Mr. Anon.

"I suppose one must keep one's promises, Mrs. Bowater, even to a stranger. Would half-past six be too early to keep mine, do you think? Would it look too -- forward? Of course he may have forgotten all about me by this time."