His table-napkin he carried neatly folded over one arm.
And there was Francey Wilmot.
She had other people with her, but he saw her first. He could not have
mistaken her. Of course, she had changed. She was taller, for one
thing, and wore evening dress instead of the plain brown frock that he
remembered. But her thick hair had always been short, and now it was
done up it did not seem much shorter. And it still had that quaint air
of being brushed up from her head by a secret, rushing wind--of wanting
to fly away with her. She was burnt, too, with an alien sun and wind.
Her face and neck were a golden brown, and in reckless contrast with her
white shoulders. One saw how little she cared. She sat with her elbows
on the table, and the sight of the supple hands and strong, slender
wrists stopped Robert Stonehouse short, as though a deep, old wound which
had not troubled him for years had suddenly begun to hurt again. And yet
how happy he had been, as a little boy, when she had just touched him.
It was evidently a celebration in her honour. A tall young man with side
whiskers who came in late presented her with a bunch of roses in the name
of the whole company and with a gay, exaggerated homage. They were a
jolly crowd. They had in common their youth and an appearance of
good-natured disregard for the things that ordinary people cared about.
Otherwise they were of all sorts and conditions, like their clothes.
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