She seemed old to him, older than Clara.

Her bloom of youth had quickly gone.

A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come upon her.

She meditated a little while, then looked at him.
"And how are things with you ?" she asked.
"About all right," he answered.
She looked at him, waiting.
"Nay," she said, very low.
Her brown, nervous hands were clasped over her knee.

They had still the lack of confidence or repose, the almost hysterical look.