He stood now coatless, eyes protected by a green shade, attention fixed upon his drafting-table. He had not heard the stopping of a motor-car, nor was his concentration interrupted by the unceremonious opening of the door. "What's the use pretending you don't know I'm here?" said Hildegarde. Potter turned abruptly and found himself without words. He was not content to extend one hand, but must stretch out both, ink-stained though they were, and she took them boyishly. "I just got home this morning," she said. "Dad said I couldn't come and wouldn't send me any money, so I got a man to pawn some things and ran away. I don't think the man gave me all the money he got--_quite_. Dad was furious. He almost _busted_. As soon as he'd shouted himself into a state of collapse and rushed out of the house I called your house on the telephone. They said you were here, so I got in my car and came--and aren't you going to say _anything_?" "It's you," his lips said, stupidly enough, but his eyes must have been more eloquent, for Hildegarde said, with satisfaction, "You _are_ glad to see me." He was thinking to himself that his memory was inefficient, for it had not retained so many of the delights of her reality; it had forgotten the way her little ears cuddled into her unruly hair; it had forgotten that daring, challenging glint in her blue eyes; he had forgotten something of that determined line of her brows--a determined line which did not give an expression of severity. He had recalled her general appearance as one of some pertness; it was not pertness, he saw, but keenness. She had seemed a little girl--a rather naughty, wilful, impertinent little girl; that seeming of youth was there, but it was no longer the youth of the little girl with whom one _plays_ house--it was the youth of the girl on the point of womanhood with whom one would desire to _keep_ house. She had been alluring, intriguing, as he remembered her; in reality she was enchanting, compelling, startling. She excited the imagination, not physically, but adventurously. Potter had once compared her to a dancing flame; he approved that comparison. The inevitable conclusion to be drawn from studying Hildegarde was that life in her vicinity would be far from uneventful. She was full of dynamic promise. "I _am_ glad to see you," he said, letting her hands go with reluctance. "I've been thinking about you." "How nice! I've been thinking about you--wondering how you came out of it ... if your nose was flattened or one leg shorter than the other. Why, you don't look as if you had been smashed all to pieces." She laughed gaily. "I'll try to limp," he suggested, "if it will please you." She drew her shoulders together and became serious. "I was afraid," she said. "I couldn't bear to think you--were not the way you used to be. If you had been crippled--and it was my fault! That's why I came so quickly. I wanted to know. You see, I didn't know anything--except that you were alive."