The tears had flowed and her cheeks were wet with them, but of that she was not conscious, so great was her surprise at finding Franklin Winslow Kane standing before her on the mossy path.
Mr.Kane carried his straw hat in his hand.

He was very warm, his hair was untidy on his moist brow, his boots were white with dust, his trousers were turned up from them and displayed an inch or so of thin ankle encased in oatmeal-coloured socks.

His tie--Helen noted the one salient detail among the many dull ones that made up a whole so incongruous with the magic scene--was of a peculiarly harsh and ugly shade of blue.

He had only just climbed over a low wall near by and that was why he had come upon her so inaudibly and had, so inadvertently, been a witness of her grief.
He did not, however, show embarrassment, but looked at her with the hesitant yet sympathetic attentiveness of a vagrant dog.
Helen sat on the moss, her feet extended before her, and she returned his look from her tearful eyes, making no attempt to soften the oddity of the situation.

She found, indeed, a gloomy amusement in it, and was aware of wondering what Mr.Kane, who made so much of everything, would make of their mutual predicament.
'Have you been having a long walk, too ?' she asked.
He looked at her, smiling now a little, as if he wagged a responsive tail; but he was not an ingratiating dog, only a friendly and a troubled one.
'Yes, I have,' he said.