"And how musical faculty--amounting to genius--often remained absolutely unsuspected owing to its professor having no inheritance. But it would come out in the children. Then, and not till then, tardy justice was done.... Well, I don't know exactly how she worked it out, but she managed to suggest that she was Handel and Mozart in abeyance. Her son's fair complexion clinched matters. It was the true prototype of her own. A thoroughly musical complexion, bespeaking German ancestry." "Isn't that the omnibus?" says Sally. But, no, it isn't. She continues: "I don't believe in musical complexions. Look at Julius Bradshaw--dark, with high cheek-bones, and a thin olive hand with blue veins in it. I say, mother...." "What, chick?" "He's changed his identity--Julius Bradshaw has. I can't believe he was that spooney boy that used to come hankering after me at church." And the amusement this memory makes hangs about Sally's lips as the two sit on into a pause of silence. The face of the mother does not catch the amusement, but remains grave and thoughtful. She does not speak; but the handsome eyes that rest so lovingly on the speaker are full of something from the past--some record that it would be an utter bewilderment to Sally to read--a bewilderment far beyond that crux of the moment which maybe has struck her young mind for the first time--the old familiar puzzle of the change that comes to all of us in our transition from first to last experience of the strange phenomenon we call a friend. Sally can't make it out--the way a silly lad, love-struck about her indifferent self so short a while back, has become a totally altered person, the husband of her schoolmate, an actual identity of life and thought and feeling; he who was in those early days little more than a suit of clothes and a new prayer-book. But if that is so strange to Sally, how measurelessly stranger is she herself to her mother beside her! And the man they are waiting and watching for, who is somewhere between this and St. Egbert's station in Padlock's venerable 'bus, what a crux is _he_, compared now to that intoxicated young lover of two-and-twenty years ago, in that lawn-tennis garden that has passed so utterly from his memory! And a moment's doubt, "But--has it?" is caught and absorbed by what seemed to Rosalind now an almost absurd fact--that, a week before, he had been nothing but a _fidus Achates_ of that other young man provided to make up the lawn-tennis set, and that it was that other young man at first, not he, that belonged to _her_. And he had changed away so easily to--who was it? Jessie Nairn, to be sure--and left the coast clear for his friend. Whatever now _was_ his name? Oh dear, what a fool was Rosalind! said she to herself, to have half let slip that it was _he_ that was Fenwick, and not Gerry at all. All this compares itself with Sally's experience of Bradshaw's metamorphosis, and her own seems the stranger.