"It doesn't seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I
used to know," he said, reflectively.

"Have I changed so much?" she asked, and there was in her manner an
icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip
Quentin.

"In every way. You were charming in those days."

"And not charming now, I infer."

"You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however,
is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you
were--"

"I don't like flattery, Phil," she said, hurt by what she felt to be
an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.

"I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never
said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it,
it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old
friend, and an old--er--chum."

"Won't you have a cup of tea?" she asked, as calmly as if he were
the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour.

"A dozen, if it pleases you," he said, laughingly, looking straight
into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and
unfriendly.