"Enos," said he, as he stretched out his hand for the third cup of tea,
(which he had taken only for the purpose of prolonging the pleasant
table-chat,) "I wonder which of us is most changed."
"You, of course," said Mr. Billings, "with your brown face and big
moustache. Your own brother wouldn't have known you, if he had seen you
last, as I did, with smooth cheeks and hair of unmerciful length. Why,
not even your voice is the same!"
"That is easily accounted for," replied Mr. Johnson. "But in your case,
Enos, I am puzzled to find where the difference lies. Your features seem
to be but little changed, now that I can examine them at leisure; yet it
is not the same face. But, really, I never looked at you for so long
a time, in those days. I beg pardon: you used to be so--so remarkably
shy."
Mr. Billings blushed slightly, and seemed at a loss what to answer. His
wife, however, burst into a merry laugh, exclaiming,--
"Oh, that was before the days of the A.C.!"
He, catching the infection, laughed also: in fact, Mr. Johnson laughed,
but without knowing why.
"The 'A.C.'!" said Mr. Billings. "Bless me, Eunice! how long it is since
we have talked of that summer! I had almost forgotten that there ever
was an A.C."
"Enos, _could_ you ever forget Abel Mallory and the beer?--or that scene
between Hollins and Shelldrake?--or" (here _she_ blushed the least bit)
"your own fit of candor?" And she laughed again, more heartily than
ever.
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