The train began to slacken speed.  “Why, there she is on the platform.”  The train rushed by her, the first-class carriages stopping at the other end; and, calling to the porter to take his bag out of the carriage, he sprang out, tall and thin.  “Like one who had never had the gout,” she said, as she hurried to meet him, smiling, so intimately did his appearance bring back old times.  “He is so like himself, and better dressed than I am; the embroidered waistcoat still goes in at the waist; and he still wears shirts with mauve stripes.  But he is a good deal greyer... and more wrinkled than I am.”

“So it is you, Evelyn.  Let me look at you.”  And, holding both her hands, he stood looking into the face which he had expected to find so much changed that he hardly found it changed at all, his eyes passing over, almost without notice, the white hairs among the red, and the wrinkles about the eyes and forehead, which, however, became more apparent when she smiled.  His touch was more conclusive of disappointment than his eyes; her hands seemed harder than they used to be, the knuckles had thickened, and, not altogether liking his scrutiny, she laughed, withdrawing her hands.

“Where is your valet, Owen?”

It was then that he saw that her teeth had aged a little, yellowed a little; a dark spot menaced the loss of one of the eye-teeth if not attended to at once.  But her figure seemed the same, and to get a back view he dropped his stick.  No, the convent had not bent her; a tall, erect figure was set off to advantage by a dark blue linen dress, and the small, well-reared head and its roll of thick hair by the blue straw hat trimmed with cornflowers.

“Her appearance is all right; the vent must be in her mind,” he said, preparing himself for a great disillusionment as soon as their talk passed out of the ordinary ruts.

“My valet?  I didn’t bring him.  You might not be able to put him up.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But is there any one to carry my bag?  I’ll carry it myself if you don’t live too far from here.”

“About a mile.  We can call at the inn and tell them to send a fly for your bag—­if you don’t mind the walk.”

“Mind the walk—­and you for companionship?  Evelyn, dear, it is delightful to find myself walking with you, and in the country,” he added, looking round.

“The country is prettier farther on.”

Owen looked round without, however, being able to give his attention to the landscape.

“Prettier farther on?  But how long have you been here?”

“Nearly two years now.  And you—­when did you return?”

“How did you know I was away?”

“You didn’t write.”

“I returned yesterday.”

“Yesterday?  You only read yesterday my letter written six months ago.”

“We have so much to talk about, Evelyn, so much to learn from each other.”

“The facts will appear one by one quite naturally.  Tell me, weren’t you surprised to hear I had left the convent?  And tell me, weren’t you a little disappointed?”