"I have only a few moments to stay," the young man said, after a slight pause. "I have to attend a citizens' meeting. Is not Florence well?"
"Y-yes, she is well," came in hesitating and muffled accents from behind the handkerchief. "She is not ill, but she is terribly upset by the state of things, poor child! She has such a horror of disease! Why, she can't bear to come near me when I have one of my sick headaches. So sensitive, you know. So——"
A light had gradually been breaking upon Horton's mind. He colored, and stepped forward a little. He had not been asked to sit down, and was still in overcoat and gloves.
"I think," he said, slowly, looking Mrs. Fairfield full in the face,—"I suppose I know what you mean. Florence will not come down. She is afraid to—to see me."
Mrs. Fairfield fidgeted in her chair, and a red spot burned in her sallow cheek.
"You must not think strange of it, Roger," she began, volubly. "You know how delicately organized Florence is. So nervous and excitable. And it would be such a misfortune—with her complexion!"
Dr. Horton took one or two turns across the room. He was not apt to speak on impulse, and he waited now. He stopped before a portrait of Florence, which hung over the piano. The tender face looked out upon him with the soft, beguiling smile about the small, curved lips, which had become so dear to him. Above it was a bunch of gorgeous sumac, which he had gathered for her one heavenly day, not long ago; and on the piano-rack stood the song she had taught him to believe the sweetest song in all the world:
"Du bist wie eine Blume,
So schön, so hold, so rein."