Although the three young people had left the veranda together, when they
reached the old garden Clarence and Susy found themselves considerably
in advance of Mary Rogers, who had become suddenly and deeply interested
in the beauty of a passion vine near the gate. At the first discovery of
their isolation their voluble exchange of information about themselves
and their occupations since their last meeting stopped simultaneously.
Clarence, who had forgotten his momentary irritation, and had recovered
his old happiness in her presence, was nevertheless conscious of some
other change in her than that suggested by the lengthened skirt and the
later and more delicate accentuation of her prettiness. It was not her
affectation of superiority and older social experience, for that was
only the outcome of what he had found charming in her as a child, and
which he still good-humoredly accepted; nor was it her characteristic
exaggeration of speech, which he still pleasantly recognized. It was
something else, vague and indefinite,--something that had been unnoticed
while Mary was with them, but had now come between them like some
unknown presence which had taken the confidante's place. He remained
silent, looking at her half-brightening cheek and conscious profile.
Then he spoke with awkward directness.

"You are changed, Susy, more than in looks."

"Hush," said the girl in a tragic whisper, with a warning gesture
towards the blandly unconscious Mary.

"But," returned Clarence wonderingly, "she's your--our friend, you
know."

"I DON'T know," said Susy, in a still deeper tone, "that is--oh, don't