of the year at the spring, of the day at morn, of Botticelli's
Simonetta, of Shelley's lark, of Wordsworth's daffodils, of Keats' Eve
of St. Agnes--of all the lovely radiant things of which the poets of
the world have sung----

Of course Dalton did not think of her in quite that way. He knew
something of Browning and little of Keats, but he had at least the wit
to discern the rareness of her type.

As for the rest, she wore faded blue, which melted into the blue of the
mists, stubbed and shabby russet shoes and an air of absorption in her
returned soldier. This absorption Dalton found himself subconsciously
resenting. Following an instinctive urge, he emerged, therefore, from
his chrysalis of ill-temper, and smiled upon a transformed universe.

"My raincoat, Kemp," he said, and strode forth across the platform, a
creature as shining and splendid as ever trod its boards.

Becky, beholding him, asked, "Is that Major Prime?"

"No, thank Heaven."

Jefferson, steering the Major expertly, came up at this moment. Then,
splashing down the red road whirled the gorgeous limousine. There were
two men on the box. Kemp, who had been fluttering around Dalton with
an umbrella, darted into the waiting-room for the bags. The door of
the limousine was opened by the footman, who also had an umbrella
ready. Dalton hesitated, his eyes on that shabby group by the
mud-stained surrey. He made up his mind suddenly and approached young
Paine.