“Henry!” she exclaimed, coming forward, both hands outstretched. “Henry! I heard your voice—I’d have known it anywhere, even if Victor hadn’t told me that you lived near here. You haven’t changed one bit in—how many years is it since I saw you?”
“Fifteen years, six months, and twenty-seven days, Clara,” replied the tall Bostonian, taking her hands and leading her to the light. Something in her easy, friendly manner had softened both the shock of the surprise and the embarrassment of the situation. He looked long into her face and then dropped her hands. She sank into a chair by the fireplace.
“It is a long time, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.
“No one would think so to look at you,” said Hard, sincerely. “You are the same Clara Mallory who went to Paris fifteen years ago to study music.” He picked up the basket of wood and proceeded to build the fire. She watched him, her eyes misty.
“Well, it’s odd that I haven’t changed for I’ve been through a lot,” she said, with a little smile. “And you?”
“Just the same easy-going, good-for-nothing chap, I reckon,” replied Hard.
“But this mining business? But, of course, you were educated for it at the Tech——”
“Yes, without much idea of using it.”
“But, being a Hard, you weren’t contented with doing nothing,” said Mrs. Conrad. “You know why I’m here, I suppose?”
“No. Herrick told me some time ago that you were living down near Mexico City—and that Dick Conrad had died, and how.”