In any case, no training in the world could ever have made Jean into Oswald, nor Oswald into Jean, though it might have made something different of either.
His strong large figure, soldierly yet already inclining to stoutness, and his sunburnt self-satisfied visage were not more unlike Jean's slender form and refined outlines, than his whole inner being was unlike hers. So clear was the family perception of this fact, that the same was not expected from him as from Jean. That which in her would have been a heinous sin, was unhappily in him only what they had to expect. Deep in Mr. Trevelyan's heart lay a sore sense of disappointment about this only son; but he never spoke of it, even to Jean.
Past three o'clock! They had lunched at one, and Jean was beginning to feel rather hopeless. If he did not come, it would be a disappointment indeed. She had not seen him for months. Yet she waited quietly, with a book open on her knee, which she forced herself to read.
A ring at the front door.
"Oswald!" she said aloud, and a glow came to her cheeks.
"Sir Cyril Devereux!" was announced in stumbling accents by the awkward little maid.
"Jean! That's right! I was awfully afraid I shouldn't find you in! Jean, you do look handsome," exclaimed Cyril, greatly gratified, for the flush and radiance with which she had risen to welcome Oswald seemed to belong to himself. "I never saw you so handsome before. What is it? That dress! You never ought to put on anything but French grey for the rest of your life. But you haven't any flowers. You'll wear these—" and he placed in her hand two or three exquisite rose-buds, half open, creamy and pink-tipped, with a softening spray of maidenhair.
"I had a hunt to find what I wanted; and then I was afraid I should be too late. Dear Jean, you do look nice," he went on with boyish eagerness, yet not so boyish as a year earlier.
His hair was more closely cut, his manner was more decisive, his complexion was more sunburnt. Nothing could lessen the prettiness of the violet eyes, yet even they had gained a spice of independence.
"You do look nice: I never saw you look better," he repeated, though by this time colour and shining were gone, and Jean was her quiet self, with difficulty veiling keen disappointment. "You don't mind my saying so, do you? And you are glad to see me, Jean?—just a little! The one thing I cared for in coming to Town was to get a sight of you. Everything else is so idiotically stupid."