came slowly through the gates, the last of all the travelers from
that train. She gave his hand a brisk little shake, averting her eyes
after a quick glance at him, and turning at once toward the passage
to the street. "Do you think they ought to've let you come? You
certainly don't look well!"

"But I certainly do look better," he returned, in a voice as slow as
his gait; a drawl that was a necessity, for when Bibbs tried to speak
quickly he stammered. "Up to about a month ago it took two people to
see me. They had to get me in a line between 'em!"

Edith did not turn her eyes directly toward him again, after her
first quick glance; and her expression, in spite of her, showed a
faint, troubled distaste, the look of a healthy person pressed by
some obligation of business to visit a "bad" ward in a hospital.
She was nineteen, fair and slim, with small, unequal features, but
a prettiness of color and a brilliancy of eyes that created a total
impression close upon beauty. Her movements were eager and restless:
there was something about her, as kind old ladies say, that was very
sweet; and there was something that was hurried and breathless. This
was new to Bibbs; it was a perceptible change since he had last seen
her, and he bent upon her a steady, whimsical scrutiny as they stood
at the curb, waiting for an automobile across the street to disengage
itself from the traffic.

"That's the new car," she said. "Everything's new. We've got four
now, besides Jim's. Roscoe's got two."

"Edith, you look--" he began, and paused.