"Oh, yes, he's different," replied Mary Leonard, readily. Both were quite unconscious of any discrepancy in their statements as they silently thought over the impression he had made. He was the same handsome, confident Tom Endover, but there was something gone,—and was there not something in its place? Had that gay courtesy, that debonair good fellowship, changed into something more finished, but harder and more conscious? Was there a suggestion that his old careless charm had become a calculated and a clearly appreciated facility? Lucy Eastman did not formulate the question, and it did not even vaguely present itself to Mary Leonard, so it troubled the pleasure of neither.
"What a day we have had!" they sighed in concert as they drove up again to the entrance of the inn.
"Lucy," called Mary Leonard, a little later, from one of their connecting rooms to the other, "I'm going to put on my best black net, because Tom Endover may call to-night." Then she paused to catch Lucy Eastman's prompt reply.
"And I shall put on my lavender lawn, but it'll be just our luck to have it Samuel Hatt."
The next morning Mr. Endover called for them, and they were driven to the station in his brougham.
He put them on the train, and bought the magazines for them, and waved his hand to the car window.
"You know, Lucy," said Mary Leonard, as the train pulled out, "Tom Endover always used to come to see us off."
"Of course he did," said Lucy.
"Do you know, I'm rather glad his wife was out of town," went on Mary Leonard, after a pause. "I should like to have seen her well enough, but you know she wasn't an Englefield girl."
"What can she know about old Englefield!" said Lucy, with mild contempt. "I'm very glad she was out of town."