"Mrs.—" he faltered, "Mrs. Lauzoon, how good of you to come and see me. I hope you know I would have come to you as soon as I was able?"
Joyce had been studying his face—nothing had escaped her: its wanness, the sharp outline, and the tears congealed in the hollows of his cheeks. She pulled her chair nearer, and took his extended hand.
"I'm sorry you've been sick," she said simply.
Then they smiled at each other.
PRESENTLY HE OPENED HIS EYES ... AND THERE SAT THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS NEAR HIM
It was hard for Drew to readjust his ideas and fit this beautiful woman into the guise of the Magdalene of his late thoughts.
Vaguely he saw that whatever she had undergone, she had brought from her experiences new beauty; a new force, and a power to guard her possessions with marvellous calm. She was being made as she went along in life. Her spiritual and mental architecture, so to speak, could not be properly estimated until all was finished. This conclusion chilled Drew's enthusiasm. He would have felt kinder had she been less sure of herself.
"You are looking—well, Mrs. Lauzoon." Drew felt the awkwardness of the situation growing.