thoughtful gaze into a mirror; there was not yet a shadow on her
face, the trace of a line at her eyes. The sharp smooth turning and
absolute whiteness of her bare shoulders were flawless.

At first it appeared to Linda that he, too, had not changed. They
were in the library opening into the dining-room, a space shut
against the sun by the Venetian blinds, and faintly scented by a
bowl of early tea roses. He appeared the same--large and informally
clad in gray flannels, with aggressive features and sensitive strong
hands. He was quiet but plainly happy to be with her again and sat
leaning forward on his knees, watching her intently as she chose a
seat.

Then it slowly dawned on her that he had changed, yes--tragically.
Pleydon, in every way, was years older. His voice, less arbitrary,
had new depths of questioning, his mouth was more repressed, his
face notably sparer of flesh. He was immediately aware of the result
of her scrutiny. "I have been working like a fool," he explained. "A
breath of sickness, too, four years ago in Soochow. One of the
damnable Asiatic fevers that a European is supposed to be immune
from. You are a miracle, Linda. How long has it been--nearly eight
years; you have two children and Arnaud Hallet and yet you are the
girl I met at Markue's. I wanted to see you different, just a
little, a trace of something that should have happened to you. It
hasn't. You're the most remarkable mother alive."

"If I am," she returned, "it is not as a success, or at least for
me. Lowrie and Vigne are healthy, and happy enough; but I can't lose
myself in them, Dodge; I can't lose myself at all."