The young man stood a moment with his hand upon the gate, looking after her; then turned and went up the walk to the door, and rang the bell. A smiling maid admitted him, and showed him into a very pretty drawing-room.
He had not waited long when Florence, preceded by her mother, came in. She had been a pretty school-girl, but he was hardly prepared to see so beautiful a young woman, or one so self-possessed, and so free from provincialism in dress and manner. She was a blonde beauty, of the delicate, porcelain-tinted type, small, but so well-made and well-dressed as to appear much taller than she really was. She was lovely to-night in a filmy white dress, so richly trimmed with lace as to leave the delicate flesh-tints of shoulders and arms visible through the fine meshes.
She had always cared for Roger, and, being full of delight at his return and his distinguished appearance, let her delight appear undisguisedly. Although a good deal of a coquette, with Roger coquetry seemed out of place. His own simple, sincere manners were contagious, and Florence had never been more charming.
"Tell us all about the pictures and artists and singers you have seen and heard," she said, in the course of their lively interchange of experiences.
"I am afraid I can talk better about hospitals and surgeons," said Horton. "You know I am not a bit æsthetic, and I have been studying very closely."
"You are determined, then, to practise medicine?" Mrs. Fairfield said, with rather more anxiety in her tones than the occasion seemed to demand.
"I think I am better fitted for that profession than any other," Horton answered.
"Y-yes," assented Mrs. Fairfield, doubtfully, looking at her daughter.
"I should never choose it, if I were a man," said Florence, decidedly.
"It seems to have chosen me," Horton said. "I have not the slightest bent in any other direction."