She was different! He had expected that she would be changed, of course—a little different in her street clothes; and underneath he discovered he had been half afraid of the change—afraid perhaps that she might be a little common or awkward, without the distinction of her cap and uniform.... But this young woman— He stole another glance, and his shoulders straightened in a gesture of pride and bewildered delight. This was the real thing! The other girl was masquerading.
"Who are you?" he said abruptly, as he put up his hand to help her from the car. "I don't know you! I thought I did—but you are somebody else!" He was looking at her keenly.
"Goose!" she laughed. "I am Mary Canfield, of course— Which way do we go?"
"This way." They fell into step. And he was conscious that the light, tripping, hospital step had given way to a free, swinging movement of the whole body. She was like the radiant day about them.... And she was like the roses—when at last they stood among them.... Her freedom had the same careful air of cultivation; and the crisp little color in her cheeks had the same dainty refinement.
He plucked a rose and held it against her cheek. "Just a match!" he said critically. "Goes with you! Will you have it?"
She tucked it in her belt—among the endless frills—and he looked at it admiringly.
When he saw the gardener's eyes following them, he walked with conscious pride. He had not known that any one felt like this! He would have liked to walk with her always—with the whole world looking on and admiring her.... She belonged to him!
"I say!" He stopped short in the path. "You are engaged to me, you know!"
"Oh—am I?" She laughed.