She was to play at the Mission Hall that first Sunday night, and Paul called for her to take her down through the dark, slummy streets. She kept him waiting some minutes, and when she came down, she was most unusually resplendent even for her.
"How do you do?" she said, shaking hands and smiling. "Do you know, I hardly dare call you Paul now?"
"Why ever not?" he asked, closing the house door behind her.
"You're so much older," she said.
"Two months, Madeline," he protested, using her name deliberately.
"Is that all? It seems to me that you've been away ages."
Paul glanced at her. She was entirely demure, and did not look at him.
"Well," he confessed, "it seems a long time to me too. It's curious how quickly Cambridge changes things. I hardly feel the same as I did two months ago."
"I suppose you've met all sorts of ripping people."
"Rather. Do you know Mr. Tressor's at our college, and I've shown him my verses. He said—he was awfully nice about them. And The Granta has taken a story of mine."