fact that Maude had certainly and absolutely given him up, when one
boomed from the station clock, and on the very stroke she hurried on
to the platform. How could he have strained his eyes after other
women, as if a second glance were ever needed when it was really she!
The perfectly graceful figure, the trimness and neatness of it, the
beautiful womanly poise of the head, the quick elastic step, he could
have sworn to her among ten thousand. His heart gave a bound at the
sight of her, but he had the English aversion to giving himself away,
and so he walked quickly forward to meet her with an impassive face,
but with a look in his eyes which was all that she wanted.

'How are you?'

'How do you do?'

He stood for a few moments looking at her in silence. She had on the
dress which he loved so much, a silver-grey merino skirt and jacket,
with a blouse of white pongee silk showing in front. Some lighter
coloured trimming fringed the cloth. She wore a grey toque, with a
dash of white at the side, and a white veil which softened without
concealing the dark brown curls and fresh girlish face beneath it.
Her gloves were of grey suede, and the two little pointed tan shoes
peeping from the edge of her skirt were the only touches of a darker
tint in her attire. Crosse had the hereditary artist's eye, and he
could only stand and stare and enjoy it. He was filled with
admiration, with reverence, and with wonder that this perfect thing
should really proclaim itself to be all his own. Whatever had he
done, or could he do, to deserve it?

She looked up at him in a roguish sidelong way, with the bright