the breeze caught a corner of her veil and let the sunlight run clear
across her face. He realized, in that moment, how the burning interest
as a man, which he had developed in these three weeks for Annette
Markham, had quite submerged his interest as a physician. For health,
this was a different creature from the one whom he had studied in the
parlor-car. Her color ran high; the greatest alarmist in the profession
would have wasted no thought on her heart valves; the look as of one
"called" had passed. Though she still appeared a little grave, it was a
healthy, attractive gravity; and take it all in all she had smiled much
during three weeks of daily walks and rides and tennis. Indeed, now
that he remembered it, her tennis measured the gradual change. She
would never be good at tennis; she had no inner strength and no "game
sense." But at first she had played in a kind of stupor; again and
again she would stand at the backline in a brown study until the
passage of the ball woke her with an apologetic start. Now, she
frolicked through the game with all vigor, zest and attention, going
after every shot, smiling and sparkling over her good plays, prettily
put out at her bad ones.

While he helped her on with her sweater--lingering too long over that
little service of courtesy--he expressed this.

"Do you know that for physical condition you're no more the same girl
whom I first met than--than I am!"

She laughed a little at the comparison. "And you are no more the same
man whom I first met--than I am!"

He laughed too at this tribute to his summer coating of bronze over
red. "I feel pretty fit," he admitted.