"Oh, here's Evan Haselden, and—yes—it's Mr. Ruston with him?"
As the two men entered, Mrs. Dennison rose from her chair. She was a tall woman; her years fell one or two short of thirty. She was not a beauty, but her broad brow and expressive features, joined to a certain subdued dignity of manner and much grace of movement, made her conspicuous among the women in her drawing-room. Young Evan Haselden seemed to appreciate her, for he bowed his glossy curly head, and shook hands in a way that almost turned the greeting into a deferentially distant caress. Mrs. Dennison acknowledged his hinted homage with a bright smile, and turned to Ruston.
"At last!" she said, with another smile. "The first time after—how many years?"
"Eight, I believe," he answered.
"Oh, you're terribly definite. And what have you been doing with yourself?"
He shrugged his square shoulders, and she did not press her question, but let her eyes wander over him.
"Well?" he asked.
"Oh—improved. And I?"
Suddenly Ruston laughed.
"Last time we met," he said, "you swore you'd never speak to me again."