About noon next day the Seagraves' brougham drew up before the Mallett house and Geraldine, in furs, stepped out and crossed the sidewalk with that swift, lithe grace of hers. The servant opened the grille; she entered and stood by the great marble-topped hall-table until Duane came down. Then she gave him her gloved hands, looking him straight in the eyes.
She was still pale but self-possessed, and wonderfully pretty in her fur jacket and toque; and as she stood there, both hands dropped into his, that nameless and winning grace which had always fascinated him held him now—something about her that recalled the child in the garden with clustering hair and slim, straight limbs.
"You look about fifteen," he said, "you beautiful, slender thing! Did you come to see my father?"
"Yes—and your father's son."
"Crumpled up like a white flower in his arms."
"Me?"
"Is there another like you, Duane—in all the world?"
"Plenty——"