“You—you’re not—looking quite as well as you were, George,” she said slowly.
“I’ve been awf’ly lonesome, Betty,” he replied. “I—it was awf’ly good of you to come.”
“Good of me? Why, it was a privilege. It was too sweet of your sister to invite me to come.”
“No, no! Don’t—don’t say that. I—” He stopped confused. “Betty, I was desperate to see you—just see you, you understand.”
She reached out and took his hand impulsively.
“You poor boy! And your sister, Mrs. Payne——”
Chanler was tugging at his collar.
“Here, here! I’ve forgotten,” he interrupted nervously, “Here’s Gardy—Miss Baldwin, Mr. Gardner Pitt.”
And Miss Beatrice Baldwin looked at me squarely for the first time. Her look was frankly appraising. We shook hands. I do not remember that we spoke a word. She looked up at George Chanler’s drink-hardened face; her eyes turned again to me, and after awhile she looked away.
There was a tiny up-flaring of lace about her neck. It was this picture that stuck in my mind: the delicate femininity of the lace collar, its suggestion of defenselessness, and, rising out of it, the firm, white neck, the slightly tanned face, girlishly delicate, but with the look on it of the outdoor girl who is not afraid.