It was characteristic of John's letters that he had not mentioned her name. Many of his friends at the 'Varsity she knew well by his accounts of them, having no more classification for them in her mind than the nicknames they went by.
John was leaning out of the carriage window as the train drew in. Swift enough she noted the look of eager excitement in his eyes; but it was that figure in the pale blue frock behind him she saw. As they came down the platform towards her, John first with his bounding stride, still it was the figure behind him her heart was watching, notwithstanding that she gave her eyes to him.
"Here's Dorothy Fielding, Mater," he said, scarcely with pause to exchange their kiss of meeting.
She turned with the smile that hid her hurt to meet those eyes her John had chosen to look into.
It was a quiet woman this Dorothy saw, so calm and serene as made her realize how all those subtle preparations she had made for this meeting were wasted here. That she was well gowned, well shod, that her hair was neither too carefully dressed nor untidy in its effect, that her hat showed confidence in her taste, all these preparations over which she had taken such care she knew could not avail here in the judgment of those eyes that met hers.
This was not just a woman she had to please and satisfy; it was something like an element, like fire or like rushing water her soul must meet, all bare and stripped of the disguising superficialities of life.
"This is the first time I've heard your name," said Mary with that smile she gave her. "John never mentioned it in his letter. But then I don't suppose he's ever told you what I was like."
"Mater! I've told Dorothy everything, haven't I, Dee? Described every little detail about you, rather!"
Mary's hands stretched out and held his. Her eyes she kept for Dorothy.
"Well, I hope you're not disappointed," she said, "because I'm not a bit like it--am I?"