She was so greatly and yet so little changed that he felt, as he looked at her, like a man in a dream. He tried to analyze the change and could not, and the effort to do so was a pain to him. The color in her cheeks was less bright than he remembered it, but her eyes were brighter; he thought also that they looked larger, and soon recognized that this was not only because her face was less girlishly full, but arose from a certain alertness of expression which had established itself in them. And yet, despite their clear brightness, when she lifted them to his own, his sense of loss was for the instant terrible. Her slight, rounded figure was even prettier than ever,--more erect, better borne, and with a delicate consciousness and utilizing of its own graces,--but it was less easy to connect it mentally with the little gray gown and lace kerchief than he could ever have believed possible. Her very smile and voice had changed. The smile was sometimes a very brilliant one and sometimes soft and slow, as if a hidden meaning lay behind it; the voice was low-pitched, charmingly modulated, and expressed far more than the words it gave to a listener, but Tredennis knew that he must learn to know them both, and that to do so would take time and effort. He never felt this so strongly as when she sat down on the cushioned window-seat, and made a little gesture toward the place at her side. "Sit down," she said, with the soft smile this time,--a smile at once sweet and careless. "Sit down, and tell me if you are glad to be stationed in Washington; and let me tell _you_ that papa is delighted at the prospect of your being near him again." "Thank you," answered Tredennis; "and as to the being here, I think I like the idea of the change well enough." "You will find it a great change, I dare say," she went on; "though, of course, you have not devoted yourself to the Indians entirely during your absence. But Washington is unlike any other American city. I think it is unlike any other city in the universe. It is an absorbingly interesting place when you get used to it." "You are fortunate in finding it so," said Tredennis. "I?" she said, lightly. "Oh! I do not think I could resign myself to living anywhere else; though, when you reflect, of course you know that is a national quality. All good Americans adore the city they confer distinction on by living in, and asperse the characters of all other places. Englishmen believe in London, and Frenchmen in Paris; but in America, a New Yorker vaunts himself upon New York, a Bostonian glories in Boston, and a Washingtonian delights in the capital of his country; and so on, until you reach New Orleans." "That is true enough," said Tredennis, "though I had not thought of it before." "Oh, it is true," she answered, with an airy laugh. Then she added, with a change of tone, "You have been away for a long time." "Eight years," he replied.