"Certainly. You hit me twice in the eye because I lost my temper sparring with Scott. Your hands were small but heavy in those days.... I imagine they're heavier now." She laughed, clasped both pretty hands over her knee, and tilted back against the palm, regarding him from dark, velvety eyes. "You were a curiously fascinating child," he said. "I remember how fast you could run, and how your hair flew--it was thick and dark, with rather sunny high lights; and you were always running--always on the go.... You were a remarkably just girl; that I remember. You were absolutely fair to everybody." "I was a very horrid little scrub," she said, watching him over her gently waving fan, "with a dreadful temper," she added. "Have you it now?" "Yes. I get over it quickly. Do you find Scott very much changed?" "Well, not as much as you. Do you find Naida changed?" "Not nearly as much as you." They smiled. The slight embarrassment born of polite indifference brightened into amiable interest, tinctured by curiosity. "Duane, have you been studying painting all these years?" "Yes. What have you been doing all these years?" "Nothing." A shadow fell across her face. "It has been lonely--until recently. I began to live yesterday." "You used to tell me you were lonely," he nodded. "I was. You and Naida were godsends." Something of the old thrill stirred her recollection. She leaned forward, looking at him curiously; the old memory of him was already lending him something of the forgotten glamour. "How tall you are!" she said; "how much thinner and--how very impressively grown-up you are, Duane. I didn't expect you to be entirely a man so soon--with such a--an odd--expression----" He asked, smiling: "What kind of an expression have I, Geraldine?" "Not a boyish one; entirely a man's eyes and mouth and voice--a little too wise, as though, deep inside, you were tired of something; no, not exactly that, but as though you had seen many things and had lived some of them----" She checked herself, lips softly apart; and the memory of what she had heard concerning him returned to her. Confused, she continued to laugh lightly, adding: "I believe I was afraid of you at first. Ought I to be, still? You know more than I do--you know different kinds of things: your face and voice and manner show it. I feel humble and ignorant in the presence of so distinguished a European artist." They were laughing together now without a trace of constraint; and she was aware that his interest in her was unfeigned and unmistakably the interest of a man for a woman, that he was looking at her as other men had now begun to look at her, speaking as other men spoke, frankly interested in her as a woman, finding her agreeable to look at and talk to. In the unawakened depths of her a conviction grew that her old playmate must be classed with other men--man in the abstract--that indefinite and interesting term, hinting of pleasures to come and possibilities unimagined.