“Well, dear,” said Susie, “I do trust that our sweetness does not depend on the fact that you and Brenda are entitled to so many hundreds a year. I have always been fond of you just for your two selves and for nothing else.”
“There is one thing that makes me a little anxious,” said Florence; “but, of course, it is all right—of course it is.”
“What is it, darling?” asked Susie. “You may as well out with it, for I can see plainly that you are harbouring a very uncomfortable and anxious thought in your heart.”
“Well,” said Florence, “it is this way. I am thinking about Michael. I am wondering if—if he will mind.”
“Do you mean Michael Reid?”
“Yes.”
Susie was silent, but she laid down the sharp knife with which she had been cutting her orange peel and looked full at the girl.
“What do you think yourself, Florence?”
“I think this,” said Florence. “I think that if I doubt him I am about the most unworthy, the most cowardly girl in all God’s world. For when he told me—oh yes, Susie, he did tell me—for when he told me so plainly that he loved me, he said it was for myself, and that if I were as poor as a church mouse, he would love me just, just the same.”
“Then, of course, it is all right,” said Susie. She spoke cheerfully.