FUSCHIA FLEMING
Procrastination was a thief that had never succeeded in wresting much time from Hepworth. He was one of those rare and exemplary natures who never put off until to-morrow what they can do to-day. Never did he stand shivering on the edge of his cold bath, but plunged in immediately without pause for consideration. Obnoxious virtues these—prejudicial to any popularity among his fellow-beings, therefore it speaks volumes for him that he was able to overlive them.
This all goes to show that although the duty of keeping an eye on Fleming's daughter became more repugnant to him the longer it remained in contemplation, he yet lost no time in looking her up, as he expressed it to himself. Neither did he waver in his promise to himself fitly to celebrate Eugene Gresham's departure for other shores, but kept his vow by selecting the most gaudily decorated and wastefully beribboned box of sweets he could secure, and armed with it, as a hostage to impertinent childhood, took himself to the big hotel where Miss Fuschia Fleming was stopping.
He sent up his name to her and was very shortly informed that Miss Fleming was in the garden and would be delighted to have him join her there.
Hepworth curled his lip. What grown-up airs! Naturally, she had lost no time in turning up her hair and having her gowns lengthened since her father's departure, and he, Hepworth, would have to play up to this phase of missishness.
He was dazzled for the moment by the bright sunshine, the brilliant flowers, and mechanically followed the page, threading his way through various groups of people. Before a table among the roses sat a young woman reading. The page stopped; Hepworth stopped; the young woman cast aside her book and rose.
