“We’ll sit here,” she said, and stood smilingly regarding him while he lugged up two chairs to the most retired corner.

Slowly waving her fan, she seated herself and surveyed the room.

It is quite true that reunion after many years usually ends in constraint and indifference.  If she felt slightly bored, she certainly looked it.  Neither of them resembled the childish recollections or preconceived notions of the other.  They found themselves inspecting one another askance, as though furtively attempting to surprise some familiar feature, some resemblance to a cherished memory.

But the changes were too radical; their eyes, looking for old comrades, encountered the unremembered eyes of strangers—­for they were strangers—­this tall young man, with his gray eyes, pleasantly fashioned mouth, and cleanly moulded cheeks; and this long-limbed girl, who sat, knees crossed, one long, slim foot nervously swinging above its shadow on the floor.

In spite of his youth there was in his manner, if not in his voice, something tinged with fatigue.  She thought of what Kathleen had said about him; looked up, instinctively questioning him with curious, uncomprehending eyes; then her gaze wandered, became lost in smiling retrospection as she thought of Dysart, peevish; and she frankly regretted him and his dance.

Young Mallett stirred, passed a rather bony hand over his shaven upper lip, and said abruptly:  “I never expected you’d grow up like this.  You’ve turned into a different kind of girl.  Once you were chubby of cheek and limb.  Do you remember how you used to fight?”

“Did I?”

“Certainly.  You hit me twice in the eye because I lost my temper sparring with Scott.  Your hands were small but heavy in those days....  I imagine they’re heavier now.”

She laughed, clasped both pretty hands over her knee, and tilted back against the palm, regarding him from dark, velvety eyes.

“You were a curiously fascinating child,” he said.  “I remember how fast you could run, and how your hair flew—­it was thick and dark, with rather sunny high lights; and you were always running—­always on the go....  You were a remarkably just girl; that I remember.  You were absolutely fair to everybody.”

“I was a very horrid little scrub,” she said, watching him over her gently waving fan, “with a dreadful temper,” she added.

“Have you it now?”

“Yes.  I get over it quickly.  Do you find Scott very much changed?”

“Well, not as much as you.  Do you find Naida changed?”

“Not nearly as much as you.”

They smiled.  The slight embarrassment born of polite indifference brightened into amiable interest, tinctured by curiosity.

“Duane, have you been studying painting all these years?”

“Yes.  What have you been doing all these years?”

“Nothing.”  A shadow fell across her face.  “It has been lonely—­until recently.  I began to live yesterday.”