"A small start," Lambert was saying, "but if he makes the grade there's a big future for him there. I fancy he's anxious to meet you halfway. How about you, George?" "I'll make no promises," George said. "It depends entirely on Dalrymple." Lambert didn't warn him, so he didn't expect to find Dalrymple enjoying the early spring graces of Oakmont. He managed the moment of meeting, however, without disclosing anything. Dalrymple, for the time, was quite unimportant. It was Sylvia he was anxious about, Sylvia who undoubtedly nursed a sort of horror of what he had ventured to do and say at Upton. Everyone else was outside, as if making a special effort to welcome him. Where was she? He resented the worshipful attentions of the servants. "I'm quite capable of managing myself," he said, as he motioned them aside and lowered himself from the automobile. He disliked old Planter's heartiness, although he could see the physical effort it cost, for the once-threatening eyes were nearly dark; and the big shoulders stooped forward as if in a constant effort to escape a pursuing pain; and the voice, which talked about heroes and the country's debt and the Planters' debt, quavered and once or twice broke altogether, then groped doubtfully ahead in an effort to recover the propelling thought. Mrs. Planter, at least, spared him any sentimental gratitude. She was rather grayer and had in her face some unremembered lines, but those were the only changes George could detect. As far as her manner went this greeting might have followed the farewell at Upton after only a day or so. "I hope your wound isn't very painful." "My limping," he answered, "is simply bad habit. I'm overcoming it." "That's nice. Then you'll be able to play polo again!" "I should hope so, as long as ponies have four good legs." He wished other people could be like her, so unobtrusively, unannoyingly primeval. As he entered the hall he saw Sylvia without warning, and he caught his breath and watched her as she came slowly down the stairs. He tried to realize that this was that coveted moment he had so frequently fancied the war would deny him--the moment that brought him face to face with Sylvia again, to witness her enmity, to desire to break it down, to want her more than he had ever done. She came straight to him, but even in the presence of the others she didn't offer her hand, and all she said was: "I was quite sure you would come back." "You knew I had to," he laughed. Then he sharpened his ears, for she was telling her brother something about Betty's having telephoned she was driving over to take Lambert, Dalrymple, and herself to Princeton. No. The war had changed her less than any one George had seen. She was as beautiful, as unforgiving, as intolerant; and he guessed that it was she and not Betty who had made the arrangement which would take her away from him. "George will come, too," Lambert began. "Afraid I'm not up to it," George refused, dryly.