When he had seen her before she had worn something plain and dark.

Could a white gown and the golden glow of June effect such transformation?
She came slowly toward him and took his hand.
"Daren, I am home," was all she could say.
Long hours before Lane had braced himself for this ordeal.

It was himself he had feared, not Mel.

He played the part he had created for her imagination.

Behind his composure, his grave, kind earnestness, hid the subdued and scorned and unwelcome love that had come to him.
He held it down, surrounded, encompassed, clamped, so that he dared look into her eyes, listen to her voice, watch the sweet and tragic tremulousness of her lips.
"Yes, Mel, where you should be," replied Lane.
"It was you--your offer to marry me--that melted father's heart." "Mel, all he needed was to be made think," returned Lane.