afterward whether he had even been on the scene or not. But the savor of
their friendship, though mild, was a pleasant one and there was none of
her old acquaintances she'd rather have looked forward to to-day at
tea-time in the drawing-room. She knew exactly what he would be like;
just what they would say to each other. The only doubt in her mind was
whether he'd bring her chocolates or daffodils.

She guessed wrong. It was a box of candied strawberries that he gave her
as soon as their double hand-shake set him free. But nothing else came at
once to the surface to falsify her prevision. She remembered how he liked
his tea and was able to get an affectionate warmth into her voice, that
sounded real though strangely enough it wasn't, in agreeing with him how
like old times this was and how good it seemed to be home. Then came the
joy of having Rush back again, and the war, and the Peace
Conference,--only we weren't going to talk about things like that. And
then Alan Seeger, Rupert Brooke, Conningsby Dawson.

But oddly enough, she felt herself going back to still older times, to
the abominable little girl who had yielded to irresistible desires such
as making faces at him and rubbing the nap of his silk hat the wrong
way. She repressed, vigorously, this lawless vein. She was determined for
this one day to be just as nice as he tried, so hard, to think she was.
But with this resolution occupying her mind the talk presently ran rather
thin, her contribution to it for whole minutes drying up entirely. It was
after a rather blank silence that he said he supposed Paula was lying
down, resting for to-night's performance. His inflection struck Mary as a
little too casual and reminded her that it was his first mention of her
stepmother's name. This roused her attention.

"Oh, Paula's off playing with Rush," she said. "I believe they went to