"We've come a little into our own, I suppose," she remarked. "As for me, I feel a different woman since I stepped out of the made-to-order world. And you—well, don't be angry, but you're not nearly so much of a prig, are you, Julien? You're less starched and more human. Of course we are more companionable. We are both more human."
He nodded.
"I suppose that so far as I am concerned Kendricks had something to do with it—he was always trying to make me look at things differently. But it seems such a short time for such an absolute change."
She was balancing her pen upon the inkpot—keeping her eyes turned from him.
"It isn't always a matter of time, you know, Julien," she said thoughtfully. "You were never really a prig—I was never really a machine for wearing a ready-made smile and a few smart frocks. It took a shock to make us see things, but neither of us remained wilfully blind. You'll be back in your world before long and a better man than ever."
"And you?"
"I have hopes some day of becoming a perfect secretary," she confessed.
"If I fail, I will at least make more bows than any one else in a day."
He leaned towards her, showing a sudden and dangerous forgetfulness of his bandaged arm.
"Anne," he said firmly, "if I go back, you go back. Sometimes I think that I shall never regret anything that has happened if—"
The door was softly opened. It was Madame Christophor who entered with a little pile of letters in her hand. Lady Anne, with slightly heightened color, rose to her feet. There was something in Madame Christophor's eyes which was almost fiercely questioning.