A certain unconscious but underlying discontent appeared to vanish from his eyes, and he said, abruptly: "I have it--I have it.
This dress is like the one you wore the first night that we met.

It's the same kind of stuff, it's just the same colour and the same style.
Why, I see it all as plain as can be--there at the opera.

And you wore blue the day I tried to propose to you and couldn't, and asked you down to Wales instead.

Lord, how I funked it!" He laughed, happily almost.
"Yes, you wore blue the first time we met--like this." "It was the same skirt, and a different bodice, of course both those first times," she answered.

Then she stepped back and daintily smoothed out the gown she was wearing, smiling at him as she did that day three years ago.