had been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something
duller, his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in
her surprised and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and
delightful transfiguration.

At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from
him, from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of
absence; and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little,
as always, when in contact with him.

But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her
pretty hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and
released it.

From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for
a quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the
night's parting.

Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease
with him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of
isolation to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.

Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man,
such a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such
kindness, such patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such
virile sense and sympathy.

And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything
disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.