Aunt Bee caught herself thinking that, if Denzil really wanted her, he had better make up his mind at once. Nameless and dowerless though she was, the Girl from Nowhere was not likely to go long a-begging.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, the puffing of the arriving motor could be heard upon the still air.
"There he is!" cried Aunt Bee, rising from among her tea-things. Rona did not rise. She leaned forward with an air of interest, but quite controlled. Miss Rawson was halfway across the lawn when Denzil stepped out through the drawing-room window, joined her on the terrace, greeted her with affection, and strolled with her towards the table in the shade.
Then Veronica rose, slowly, to her full height. The moment lent a slight added glow to the carnation of her smooth cheek. But the shy dignity of her attitude was almost condescending, as Aunt Bee noted with relish.
Denzil was looking his best. Yachting suited him. He was tanned and healthy-looking, his blue eyes very clear, as if with the reflection of the seas whereon he had lately sailed. He was in the midst of a sentence when he perceived the young regal creature rising from the low chair to greet him. His voice died away, and for a moment he stopped short just where he was, upon the grass.
"Is that—Rona—Miss Smith?"
He corrected himself with haste, with sudden, helpless confusion. He dare not call her Rona; and that such a goddess could be called Smith!
His appearance pleased the girl. This was a man of wisdom and character, she told herself—a man who knew the world—not a mad boy who went tilting at windmills. The gratitude in her heart welled up into her glorious eyes as she laid her hand in his without a word.
"So you are grown up!" said Denzil, wondering and gazing, and drinking her in.
"Thanks to you," she responded, in a sweet, rather low-pitched voice, "I am grown up and ready to face the world."