seeing him so unexpectedly, it was as though she beheld a man remade.
He seemed larger; he was rough and unfinished. His shoes were heavy and scuffed; his pants were khaki, he wore a white cotton shirt open at the throat and no coat; a soiled straw hat was in his hand, the big, brown toil-stained hand which hung at his thigh. There was roughness in his face, too; he had not shaved this day, but there was no hint of uncouthness in his neglect, for the skin of cheeks and chin was bronzed by sun and wind, and seemed to be shaped in new lines. There was a different set in his mouth, a gravity, a maturity that had not been in John Taylor two months ago. His blue eyes, though they smiled, now, seemed steadier, more grave, and very serious.
"Why, John!"
Her cool voice was low and she rose quickly, half frightened.
"I didn't know whether you'd want to see me or not." He was embarrassed as he advanced and looked into her flushing face.
"That shouldn't have been hard to determine," she said coldly.
"I suppose not. I guess we have said everything to each other that can be said, haven't we?"
"We have!"
She tried to breathe normally, but the leap of her heart would not let her. She felt her knees tremble and averted her gaze from his steady scrutiny.
"I'm sorry, " he said. "I told you that once. I say it again, Marcia. I'm so sorry—but it was better this way than—going on, wasn't it?"
