Crossing the street, he looked up, waiting for a wagon to pass, and there on the opposite side stood Mary Conyngham. She did not see him at once, perhaps (he thought) because she had not expected to see him, and so had not recognized him. She was wearing a short skirt, known as a "rainy daisy," though it was a bright, clear day. She looked pale, he thought, and much older—handsomer, too, than she had once been. All the tomboyish awkwardness had vanished. She was a woman now. For a moment he had a terrible desire to turn and run, to hide himself. It was a ridiculous thought, and it came to nothing, for as the wagon passed she saw him, and, smiling, she crossed the street to meet him. His heart was beating wildly, and the rare color came into his dark cheeks.
"Philip," she said, "I've been wondering where you were."
It gave him the oddest sensation of intimacy, as if the meeting had been planned, and he had been waiting all this time impatiently.
They shook hands, and Mary said, "I've just left your mother." And Philip blushed again, feeling awkward, and silly, like a boy in his best clothes, who didn't know what to do with his hands. He was dressed like a workman in an old suit and blue cotton shirt.
Suddenly he plunged. "I came out here on purpose I wanted to see you."
"Have you been to the house?"
"No," he hesitated. "No . . . I've just been walking round, hoping to run into you."
It was five years since they had last seen each other, and longer than that since they had really been friends. Talk didn't come easily at first. Standing
