"Well, why didn't you speak to me the other evening?" He was rather flabbergasted, he could not realize that this was the meek little girl he had known in Scotland.
She raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. "It's not usual for servants to speak to guests, unless they are spoken to," she said.
"No, er—may I walk home with you?" As he looked into her eyes he thought for a moment, he saw some resemblance to Darwen.
She hesitated a second, and he, watching closely, caught the light of a little look that made him feel very happy. "Yes, if you like," she said, and just for a moment the long black lashes swept the cheek as he had seen them once before.
With much alacrity he stepped on to the off side, and they proceeded down the street.
"You've changed wonderfully since I saw you last," he said.
"Have I?" she asked.
"Improved," he said, "wonderfully! I had no idea that much improvement was possible, but I see it was." Carstairs was not usually a man of many words, yet that glimpse of the 'something' in her eye seemed to have loosened his tongue. He noticed that she flushed slightly with pleasure.
"You're improved, too," she said, "you're older. How's Miss Bevengton?"
They were just turning the corner. A long vista of electric lamps and lighted shops opened out before their gaze. He was just about to answer her question (which had struck a jarring note) when the whole long perspective of light suddenly became eclipsed, went out, as if by magic.