“You used to tell me you were lonely,” he nodded.

“I was.  You and Naida 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?”