If Phil had been asked to describe the girl that Mary would grow into, he never would have pictured this development.  He expected her desert experiences to give her a strong forceful character.  She would be like the pioneer women of early times, he imagined; rugged and energetic and full of resources.  But he had not expected this gentleness of manner, this unconscious dignity and a certain poise that reminded him of—­he was puzzled to think of what it did remind him.  Later, it came to him, as he continued to watch her.  Not for naught had Mary set up a shrine to her idolized Princess Winsome and striven to grow like her in every way possible.  Not in feature, of course, but often in manner there was a fleeting, shadowy undefinable something that recalled her.

In her younger days she would have appropriated Phil as her rightful audience, and would have swung along beside him, amusing him with her original and unsolicited opinions of everything they passed.  But a strange shyness seized her when she looked up and saw how much older he was in reality than he had been in her recollections.  She had no answer ready when he began his accustomed teasing.  Instead she clung to Joyce when they left the street-car, leaving Betty to walk with Phil as they threaded their way through the crowded thoroughfares.  It was so good to be with her again, and as they hurried along she squeezed the arm linked in hers to emphasize her delight.

For the time, Joyce found no change in her, for with child-like abandon she exclaimed over the strange sights.  “Oh, Joyce!  Snow!” she cried, when a falling flake brushed her face.  “After all these years of orange-blossoms and summer sun at Christmas, how good it seems to have real old Santa Claus weather!  I can almost see the reindeer and smell the striped peppermint and pop-corn.  And oh, oh! look at that shop-window.  It is positively dazzling!  And the racket—­” she put her hands over her ears an instant.  “I feel that I’ve never really heard a loud noise till now.”

Joyce laughed indulgently, and stopped with her whenever she wanted to gaze in at some particularly attractive show window.  When they reached the flat, Mary still kept near her, “tagging after her,” as she would have expressed it in her earlier days, so much like the little sister of that time, that Joyce still failed to see how much she had changed during their separation.

“You see it’s just like a doll-house,” Joyce said as she led them through the tiny rooms on a tour of inspection.  “All except the studio.  We had a partition taken out and two rooms thrown together for that.  Now the company will have to go in there and entertain themselves while I put the finishing touches to the dinner.  The kitchenette will only hold one at a time.”

Betty and Phil obediently went into the studio to renew their acquaintance of two years before, begun at Eugenia’s wedding, and wandered around the room looking at the various specimen’s of Joyce’s handicraft pinned about on the walls.  One of the first pauses was before a sketch of Lloyd, done from memory, a little wash drawing of her.  Mary, standing in the doorway, heard Phil say, “Tell me about her, Miss Betty.  She writes so seldom that I can only imagine her conquests.”