He sat in the homemade chair on the porch and, because looking at Nevada disturbed him unaccountably, he stared down at the river while they talked. He wondered if Nevada really felt as unconcerned over his coming as she sounded and looked. She was friendly, frankly pleased to see him,--and he resented the fact that she could speak so openly of her pleasure. She could have said to any acquaintance the things she said to him, he told himself savagely; she was like all her letters, friendly, unconstrained, impersonal. It amazed him now to remember that he had been delighted with her letters. If at first he had wished them more diffident, as if she felt the sweet possibilities of their friendship, he had come to thank the good Lord for one sensible girl in the world. Nevada had no nonsense, he frequently reminded himself. She didn’t expect the mushy love-making flavor in their correspondence. He could feel sure of Nevada. Now it maddened him to feel so sure of her; so sure of her composed friendliness that left no little cranny for love to creep in. She liked him,--in the same way that she liked Peter. He could even believe that she liked him almost as well as she liked Peter; that he stood second in her affections before all the world. Covertly he studied her whenever the conversation made a glance into her eyes quite natural and expected. She met each glance with smiling unconcern,--the most disheartening manner a lover can face. “You’ve grown, Cousin Rawley,” she said. “Yes, I’ve got your home name on my tongue--from Johnny Buffalo, I suppose. Well, you _have_ grown. I don’t mean your body alone, though you have filled out and your shoulders look broader and stronger, somehow, even though you may not weigh a pound more. But you’ve grown mentally. There’s a strength in your face--an added strength. And your eyes are so _much_ different. You keep me wondering, in between our talk, what is in your mind--back of those eyes. That’s a sure sign that a great, strong soul is looking out. It’s been an awful two years, hasn’t it?” “It has,” Rawley answered quietly, his mind reverting swiftly to several close squeaks from the enemy at home. “Two years ago you’d have said ‘You _bet_!’ just like that. ‘It has’ wouldn’t have seemed expressive enough. That’s what I’m driving at. Now you can just say ‘It has’, and something back of your eyes and your voice gives the punch. Cousin Rawley, you can cut out all exclamatory phrases from now on, if you like. The punch is there. I’ve seen other men back from service. One or two had that same reserve power. The others were merely full of talk about how they won the war. It’s funny.”