She looked at herself in the glass without vanity, but rather with a curious interest.
"I'm twenty-eight," she said, "in a few months I shall be twenty-nine—yet I have no wrinkles and there are no silver threads yet—I wonder—I wonder does he think me much changed? He is changed, greatly changed, yet I knew him, of course I knew him; I should have known him among ten thousand, I should have known him had he come in rags and poverty, just as I knew him, now he has come to me in his prosperity and health and strength."
She went down the stairs, she went into the drawing room and found, as she had almost feared she would find, that he was there alone. He came forward eagerly to greet her.
"Kathleen, are you angry with me?"
"Why should I be angry, Harold?"
"For coming."
"It would have been better, kinder to me if—if you had stayed away."
"And kinder to myself," he said bitterly. "Kathleen, do—do you think that this does not mean suffering to me?"
"Why did you come?"
"Your father told me you—you knew and approved, that you would be glad to welcome me."