"But I shall be ill all day."
"Never mind, you will get over it this afternoon when we read some Thackeray, and to-morrow morning you and I will do the marketing."
"You are crazy, Florence, I do believe."
"I never was more sane in my life. Come, I am in earnest. You would have me here, you know, and I shall make myself so disagreeable that you will be thankful when I am gone."
"O, Florence, how can you be so rough?" said Marion, as Florence dragged her toward the door.
"There, now," said Florence, after they had passed into the hall, "go and put on your hat. I brought mine with me."
"Just think of the heat, Florence," said Marion as she disappeared up the stairs.
In a few minutes Marion returned looking brighter already, Florence thought, and the two women were soon strolling along the lake shore talking over the countless trivialities women find to talk about, and at tea-time, after a day of Florence's nursing, Marion was forced to admit that she had passed an unusually cheerful day. Roswell Sanderson came in just as they were finishing tea, and after taking a seat and declining a cup of the beverage, he said in a careless manner: "By the way, Marion, an old friend of yours came into the bank just before I left."
"Who?" asked Marion.
"That New Yorker, Duncan Grahame."