"Oh, that's Aunt Lucy all over. If Virginia had got as fat as Miss Priscilla, she'd still believe she hadn't altered a particle."
"Well, she isn't fat, anyway. She weighs less than she ever did."
Her serious eyes dwelt on him under the green sunshade she held, and it is possible that she wondered vaguely what it was about John Henry that had made her love him unsought ever since she could remember. He was certainly not handsome—though he was less stout and much better looking than he used to be: he was not particularly clever, even if he was successful with the work Cyrus had given him. She was under no delusion concerning him (being a remarkably clear-sighted young person), yet she knew that taking him just as he was, large, slow, kind, good, he aroused in her a tenderness that was almost ridiculous. She had waited patiently seven years for him to discover that he cared for her—a fact which had been perfectly evident to her long before his duller wit had perceived it.
"Do you want to be there to welcome Jinny?" he asked.
"I'd thought I'd go up about five, so I could get a glimpse of the children before they are put to bed."
"Then I'll meet you there and bring you home. I wouldn't take anything for meeting you, Susan. There's something about you that always cheers me."
She met his eyes frankly. "Well, I'm glad of that," she replied in her confident way, and held out her hand through the handle of the basket. An instant later, when she passed on into Bolingbroke Street, there was a smile on her face which made it almost pretty.
The front door was open, and as she entered the house her mother came groping toward her out of the close-smelling dusk of the hall.
"I thought you'd never get back, Susan. I've had such a funny feeling."
"What kind of feeling, mother? It must be just nervousness. Here are some beautiful grapes I've brought you."