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 Naïda 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."
"You used to tell me you were lonely," he nodded.
"I was. You and Naïda were godsends." Something of the old thrill stirred her recollection. She leaned forward, looking at him curiously; the old memory of him was already lending him something of the forgotten glamour.
"How tall you are!" she said; "how much thinner and—how very impressively grown-up you are, Duane. I didn't expect you to be entirely a man so soon—with such a—an odd—expression–"
He asked, smiling: "What kind of an expression have I, Geraldine?"
"Not a boyish one; entirely a man's eyes and mouth and voice—a little too wise, as though, deep inside, you were tired of something; no, not exactly that, but as though you had seen many things and had lived some of them–"
She checked herself, lips softly apart; and the memory of what she had heard concerning him returned to her.
Confused, she continued to laugh lightly, adding: "I believe I was afraid of you at first. Ought I to be, still? You know more than I do—you know different kinds of things: your face and voice and manner show it. I feel humble and ignorant in the presence of so distinguished a European artist."
They were laughing together now without a trace of constraint; and she was aware that his interest in her was unfeigned and unmistakably the interest of a man for a woman, that he was looking at her as other men had now begun to look at her, speaking as other men spoke, frankly interested in her as a woman, finding her agreeable to look at and talk to.
In the unawakened depths of her a conviction grew that her old playmate must be classed with other men—man in the abstract—that indefinite and interesting term, hinting of pleasures to come and possibilities unimagined.
"Did you paint pictures all the time you were abroad?" she asked.
"Not every minute. I travelled a lot, went about, was asked to shoot in England and Austria.... I had a good time."
"Didn't you work hard?"
"No. Isn't it disgraceful!"
"But you exhibited in three salons. What were your pictures?"
"I did a portrait of Lady Bylow and her ten children."
"Was it a success?"
He coloured. "They gave me a second medal."
"Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed warmly. "And what were your others?"
"A thing called 'The Witch.' Rather painful."
"What was it?"
"Life size. A young girl arrested in bed. Her frightened beauty is playing the deuce with the people around. I don't know why I did it—the painting of textures—her flesh, and the armour of the Puritan guard, the fur of the black cat—and—well, it was academic and I was young."
"Did they reward you?"
"No."
"What was the third picture?"
"Oh, just a girl," he said carelessly.
"Did they give you a prize for it?"
"Y-yes. Only a mention."
"Was it a portrait?"
"Yes—in a way."
"What was it? Just a girl?"
"Yes."
"Who was she?"
"Oh, just a girl–"
"Was she pretty?"
"Yes. Shall we dance this next–"
"No. Was she a model?"
"She posed–"
Geraldine, lips on the edge of her spread fan, regarded him curiously.
"That is a very romantic life, isn't it?" she murmured.
"What?"
"Yours. I don't know much about it; Kathleen took me to hear 'La Bohême'; and I found Murger's story in the library. I have also read 'Trilby.' Did you—were you—was life like that when you studied in the Latin Quarter?"
He laughed. "Not a bit. I never saw that species of life off the stage."
"Oh,
