Yetta's girlish promise of beauty had been richly fulfilled. Her figure had become more definite. There had been a sort of precociousness about the sweat-shop girl he remembered. The Yetta who greeted him now was a fully developed symmetrical woman. Her face, her arms, her neck had caught up with the rest of her body. There was nothing fragile about her any more. One no longer feared that she might be suddenly snuffed out and leave nothing but the haunting memory of her eyes. More striking, and at the same time more subtle, was the transformation from self-conscious awkwardness to the assured grace of a personage who has found a place in life. The Yetta he remembered had been impulsive--a creature of extremes--one moment lost in a childish abandon of enthusiasm, the next embarrassed and _gauche_. This woman was calm, restrained, and while perfectly conscious of herself was not self-conscious. He had remembered her as pretty. Good food and a healthy life had taken from her the exotic, orchid-like charm of her girlhood. Yet she had grown greatly in beauty. Her face had gained immensely in "range"--to borrow a musical term. It held the capacity of a whole gamut of expressions it had before lacked. Her eyes were as beautiful as ever, and they had looked on many things. Her mouth had always been well-proportioned. Now any one could see that it was a perfected instrument. There were thousands of things it could say. Her cheeks had flushed or paled with a myriad of emotions and had grown more beautiful. And yet the mass of rich brown hair, which had always been the crown of her beauty, had not begun to lose its lustre. When Walter reached the head of the stairs and shook hands with her, she had changed from the dimmest of possibilities to a vivid desire. "Did you have a good passage?" "Fine. A gale all the way over." There were a few more banalities. "Good Lord, Yetta," he exploded. "How you've grown up and changed!" Yetta had hoped for his approbation of her works. He was admiring her person. He was looking her over with frank pleasure. The blush hurt her cheek. She turned away to hide it. "Here's a note Mabel gave me for you," she said. Walter took it mechanically. He ought to have tossed it into the waste-paper basket. But the hope, the fool, the idiot hope grabbed him by the throat. Once more. He tore it open. This would be positively the last concession to the Dream.--Eleanor Mead was decorating a country house out near Stamford, Mabel had gone out to pass the week-end with her. She was glad to hear that Walter was back and looked forward to hearing about his adventures. She judged from the papers that he had had a lot--So! Spending a few days with Eleanor, whom she saw all the time, was more important than staying in town to greet him, whom she had not seen for years. He stuck the letter in his pocket and turned to Yetta, who was watching him closely. "How's 'Saph' coming on?" he asked lightly. "I don't see much of her."