As he moved toward his father and Adelaide, her heart swelled with pride in him, with pride in her share in him.  Ever since the sending of the cablegram to recall him, she had been wondering what she would feel at sight of him.  Now she forgot all about her once-beloved self-analysis.  She was simply proud of him, enormously proud; other men seemed trivial beside this personage.  Also she was a little afraid; for, as their eyes met, it seemed to her that his look of recognition and greeting was not so ardent as she was accustomed to associate with his features when turned toward her.  But before she could be daunted by her misgiving it vanished; for he impetuously caught her in his arms and, utterly forgetting the onlookers, kissed her until every nerve in her body was tingling in the sweeping flame of that passion which his parting caress had stirred to vague but troublesome restlessness.  And she, too, forgot the crowd, and shyly, proudly gave as well as received; so there began to vibrate between them the spark that clears brains and hearts of the fogs and vapors and keeps them clear.  And it was not a problem in psychology that was revealed to those admiring and envying spectators in the brilliant September sunshine, but a man and a woman in love in the way that has been “the way of a man with a maid” from the beginning; in love, and each looking worthy of the other’s love—­he handsome in his blue serge, she beautiful in a light-brown fall dress with pale-gold facings, and the fluffy, feathery boa close round her fair young face.  Civilization has changed methods, but not essentials; it is still not what goes on in the minds of a man and woman that counts, but what goes on in their hearts and nerves.

The old doctor did not in the least mind the momentary neglect of himself.  He had always assumed that his son and Del loved each other, there being every reason why they should and no reason why they shouldn’t; he saw only the natural and the expected in this outburst which astonished and somewhat embarrassed them with the partial return of the self-consciousness that had been their curse.  He beamed on them from eyes undimmed by half a century of toil, as bright under his shaggy white brows as the first spring flowers among the snows.  As soon as he had Dory’s hand and his apparent attention, he said:  “I hope you’ve been getting your address ready on the train, as I suggested in my telegram.”

“I’ve got it in my bag,” replied Dory.

In the phaeton Del sat between them and drove.  Dory forgot the honors he had come home to receive; he had eyes and thoughts only for her, was impatient to be alone with her, to reassure himself of the meaning of the blushes that tinted her smooth white skin and the shy glances that stole toward him from the violet eyes under those long lashes of hers.  Dr. Hargrave resumed the subject that was to him paramount.  “You see, Theodore, your steamer’s being nearly two days late brings you home just a day before the installation.  You’ll be delivering, your address at eleven to-morrow morning.”