She could do nothing but stare at him.

She had tried in the last ten minutes to remember what he looked like, and now she was astonished to find how exactly he looked as she remembered him.
To her horror, the change between her late despair and her present joy was so extreme that she wanted to cry.

The best she knew how to do was to pucker her face into a smile and to offer him those chilly finger-tips.
He hardly took them, but said, as if announcing a black, but incontrovertible, fact: "You're not a bit glad to see me." "Oh, yes, I am," she returned, with an attempt at an easy social manner.
"Will you have some tea ?" "But why aren't you glad ?" Miss Severance clasped her hands on the edge of the tea-tray and looked down.

She pressed her palms together; she set her teeth, but the muscles in her throat went on contracting; and the heroic struggle was lost.
"I thought you weren't coming," she said, and making no further effort to conceal the fact that her eyes were full of tears she looked straight up at him.
He sat down beside her on the small, low sofa and put his hand on hers.
"But I was perfectly certain to come," he said very gently, "because, you see, I think I love you." "Do you think I love you ?" she asked, seeking information.
"I can't tell," he answered.

"Your being sorry I did not come doesn't prove anything.