“I cannot tell you how glad I am,” he exclaimed.

It was the old Corthell beyond doubting or denial. Not a single inflection of his low-pitched, gently modulated voice was wanting; not a single infinitesimal mannerism was changed, even to the little tilting of the chin when he spoke, or the quick winking of the eyelids, or the smile that narrowed the corners of the eyes themselves, or the trick of perfect repose of his whole body. Even his handkerchief, as always, since first she had known him, was tucked into his sleeve at the wrist.

“And so you are back again,” she cried. “And when, and how?”

“And so⁠—yes⁠—so I am back again,” he repeated, as they shook hands. “Only day before yesterday, and quite surreptitiously. No one knows yet that I am here. I crept in⁠—or my train did⁠—under the cover of night. I have come straight from Tuscany.”

“From Tuscany?”

“⁠—and gardens and marble pergolas.”