'O Franklin, I'm so glad to see you,' she said.
He held her hands, gazing at her with a gentle yet intent rapture, and he forgot, in a daring greater than any he had ever known, to kiss them.
Franklin never took anything for granted, and Althea knew that it was because he saw her tears and saw her emotion that he could ask her now, hesitatingly, yet with sudden confidence: 'Althea, it's been so long--you are so lovely--it will mean nothing to you, I know; so may I kiss you ?' Put like that, why shouldn't he?
Conscience had not a qualm, and Franklin had never seemed so dear to her.

She smiled a sisterly benison upon his request, and, still holding her hands, he leaned to her and kissed her.

Closing her eyes she wondered intently for a moment, able, in the midst of her motion, to analyse it; for, yes, it had thrilled her.

She needed to be kissed, were it only Franklin who kissed her.
They went, hand in hand, to a sofa, and there she was able to show him only the sisterly benignity that he knew so well.

She questioned him sweetly about his voyage, his health, his relatives--his only near relative was a sister who taught in a college--and about their mutual friends and his work.