She saw at once that it was all right. This was Christian Vellacott as she had remembered him. She looked down at him as he stood with one hand resting on the splashboard, and he, looking up to her, smiled in return.
“Christian,” she said, “do you know I should scarcely have recognised you. You are so big, and—and you look positively ghastly!” She finished her remark with a little laugh which took away from the spoken meaning of it.
“Ghastly?” he replied. “Thanks: I do not feel like it—only hungry. Hungry, and desperately glad to see a face that does not look overworked.”
“Meaning me.”
“Meaning you.”
She gave a little sarcastic nod, and pursed up a pair of very red lips.
“Nevertheless I am the only person in the house who does any work at all. Hilda, for instance—”
At this moment Sidney came up and interrupted them.
“Jump up in front, Chris,” he said; “Molly will drive, while I sit behind. Your luggage will follow in the cart.”
The drive of six miles passed away very pleasantly. Molly's strong little hands were quite accustomed to the reins, and the men were free to talk, which, however, she found time to do as well. The two young people on the front seat stole occasional sidelong glances at each other. The clever, mischievous little girl of Christian's recollection was transformed by the kindly hand of time into a fascinating and capable young lady. The uncertain profile had grown clear and regular. The truant hair was somewhat more under control, which, however, was all that could be said upon that subject. Only her eyes were unchanged, the laughing, fearless eyes of old. Fearless they had been in the times of childish mischief and adventure; fearless they remained in the face of life's graver mischances now.