But it was a different Boy Jim from him whom I had known and loved. There was a change in him somewhere, a change so marked that it was the first thing that I noticed, and yet so subtle that I could not put words to it. He was not better dressed than of old, for I well knew the old brown suit that he wore.
He was not less comely, for his training had left him the very model of what a man should be. And yet there was a change, a touch of dignity in the expression, a suggestion of confidence in the bearing which seemed, now that it was supplied, to be the one thing which had been needed to give him harmony and finish.
Somehow, in spite of his prowess, his old school name of “Boy” had clung very naturally to him, until that instant when I saw him standing in his self-contained and magnificent manhood in the doorway of the ancient house. A woman stood beside him, her hand resting upon his shoulder, and I saw that it was Miss Hinton of Anstey Cross.
“You remember me, Sir Charles Tregellis,” said she, coming forward, as we sprang down from the curricle.
My uncle looked hard at her with a puzzled face.
“I do not think that I have the privilege, madame. And yet—”
“Polly Hinton, of the Haymarket. You surely cannot have forgotten Polly Hinton.”
“Forgotten! Why, we have mourned for you in Fops’ Alley for more years than I care to think of. But what in the name of wonder—”
“I was privately married, and I retired from the stage. I want you to forgive me for taking Jim away from you last night.”
“It was you, then?”