CHAPTER VIII—The Question
He took her hand, and their eyes met. Until now it had not occurred to him that she, too, had changed. Her expression even was different; three years earlier she had been living earnestly, intensely—she had felt the unequal burdens of the world and had plunged fearlessly into vast problems, but now she seemed more impersonal, more detached.
“Sit down,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “I will speak to mother.”
There were more greetings to be gone through. They sat about the fire for awhile; and Halloran had to give an account of himself, and had to listen to Mrs. Davies's open approval of him. She had heard of him now and then; she had known from the first that he would get on; she was downright proud of him, in fact. This was something of an ordeal, and he felt relieved when she withdrew and left Margaret with him.
The two stood for a moment looking into the fire; then she nodded toward the Morris chair and he dropped into it. She sat down on the other side of the table and propped up her chin on her two hands. For a moment they sat looking at each other. Finally they both smiled.
“Well,” she observed, “we've been growing up, haven't we?”
So she had remarked it, too.
“Yes, I guess we have,” he replied. “Rather more than I had thought.”
“You didn't expect to find me the same girl you left here, did you?”