On the third day after the loss they all got something fresh to occupy themselves with, in the return home of Minnie Mallory and her brother George, who had got an extension of his vacation on the plea of ill-health: he having had a slight attack of what he said was influenza, of which he had made the most.
They were much amused to hear who Rhoda was, having retained a dim remembrance of the tall pale girl with the lank hair who had told George that listening at keyholes was ungentlemanly.
They came up to her tumultuously, a couple of overgrown, sandy-haired, light-eyed, sharp-featured young people, with mischief in every line of their faces, and dry humour in every turn of their heads.
Rhoda was upstairs in Caryl’s sitting-room when they presented themselves to her, grinning with pleasure.
“You don’t remember me,” said Rhoda.
“No,” said George frankly. “I was only eight, and I don’t think I should have recognised you with your hair up.”
“Do you think we’ve altered very much?” demanded Minnie.
“Why, of course you have. You were only quite a little girl?”
“Do you think we’ve improved?” asked George.
“I hope so, I’m sure,” said Rhoda frankly.