I don't know how it was we hadn't met him going down. He must have gone round some other way.
Well—there he was; and I saw in a moment that he was changed. His dress was shabby, and his hair wasn't sleek, and he had a sort of uncomfortable down-look, as if he didn't care to meet people. I'm sure he didn't care to meet us, any way. And the jaunty air was gone.
But, besides the change in him, there was a change in me. The three years between seventeen and twenty do make a lot of difference, you know, in a girl's mind and in what she likes. When I saw him there came a sort of wonder—how could I ever have fancied I cared for that man? Had I been crazy?
I didn't think for a moment that mother would notice him. I thought she would pass him by. And I knew he would be glad to rush past, as if he didn't know us. But she gave him a look, and stopped short just in his path. So he couldn't choose but stop too.
"Is that Walter Russell?" says mother, and she turned pale as death, while he went as red as fire.
"Er—yes," says he, with a sort of stammer, as if he wasn't sure.
"Have you been to see Mary?" says mother, fixing her eyes on him, and I saw him shrink under them.
"Yes," says he sheepishly; "just to say goodbye."
I couldn't go on, for mother had hold of my arm, as she always liked to do, and I didn't like to leave her, she looking so white. Mother seemed to forget about me, and Walter and I didn't so much as give a glance one at another.
"Ah!—to say good-bye!" says mother.