He seemed disposed to ignore the fact that this was not their first interview, and for this she was extremely thankful. It enabled her to bear her share in the conversation with greater ease; although she was not sorry when Mrs. Wilson’s anxiety to know whether this room was furnished correctly, or that one arranged as Mr. Aylwinne intended, kept him employed in answering her questions.
Florence, though her fingers were busy with some work, was a keen observer of all that was passing.
She liked to watch Mr. Aylwinne’s demeanor to the fussy little lady. While it was evident enough that these housekeeping matters were boring him, and his thoughts had often flown far away when she came to the end of some description or explanation, yet he was always patient and kind, listening to and commending her as an affectionate son would bear with the infirmities of a mother.
Once, when he lowered his voice in replying to some query she put to him, Florence started, and her work dropped on her lap, for those softly modulated tones, with something plaintive thrilling through their music, went to her own heart.
Surely she had heard them before! But when?
She looked at him scrutinizingly. His forehead and eyes were concealed by the hand that shaded them from the lamp, and the luxuriant beard and mustache, which were quite Oriental in their profusion, effectually concealed the contour of the lower part of his countenance.
Her scrutiny baffled, Florence resumed her work; but again and again the same memories were evoked, though still she vainly taxed her brain for answers to the questions:
“Who is he, and how connected with the far-distant past?”
When she again listened to Mrs. Wilson’s babble, the little lady was speaking of the library.
“You’ve not seen it yet, Mr. Aylwinne; but I’m sure you’ll be delighted. It looks so nice now it’s carpeted, and the easy-chairs in the snuggest nooks; but I’m terribly afraid you’ll think the carpet too dark, and the pattern of the largest.”