He disliked old Planter's heartiness, although he could see the physical effort it cost, for the once-threatening eyes were nearly dark; and the big shoulders stooped forward as if in a constant effort to escape a pursuing pain; and the voice, which talked about heroes and the country's debt and the Planters' debt, quavered and once or twice broke altogether, then groped doubtfully ahead in an effort to recover the propelling thought.
Mrs. Planter, at least, spared him any sentimental gratitude. She was rather grayer and had in her face some unremembered lines, but those were the only changes George could detect. As far as her manner went this greeting might have followed the farewell at Upton after only a day or so.
"I hope your wound isn't very painful."
"My limping," he answered, "is simply bad habit. I'm overcoming it."
"That's nice. Then you'll be able to play polo again!"
"I should hope so, as long as ponies have four good legs."
He wished other people could be like her, so unobtrusively, unannoyingly primeval.
As he entered the hall he saw Sylvia without warning, and he caught his breath and watched her as she came slowly down the stairs. He tried to realize that this was that coveted moment he had so frequently fancied the war would deny him—the moment that brought him face to face with Sylvia again, to witness her enmity, to desire to break it down, to want her more than he had ever done.
She came straight to him, but even in the presence of the others she didn't offer her hand, and all she said was:
"I was quite sure you would come back."