“You are too kind to me. I—I have no money, and—I can not accept charity,” faltered Floy, her sensitive pride taking alarm.
“You proud little Cupid, it will not be charity. Aren’t you going to pose for me? I shall put your face into lovely pictures, and I shall have to pay you well for the privilege. The new outfit will be a payment in advance on my debt, that is all.”
“Oh, thank you—thank you!” cried Floy, dimpling with delight at the thought of having new clothes when St. George came home.
“For I do not wish him to see me shabby and unsuited in my dress to my beautiful surroundings,” she thought, with honest pride in herself.
Alva bid her a kind good-night and retired, leaving her in such a flutter of delight that it was several hours before her eyelids closed, thought and hope were so busy over the future.
The next morning she breakfasted alone with Alva and the latter said:
“I did not tell you last night that my parents sailed for Europe yesterday.”
Floy looked so surprised that she added:
“They read in the paper a telegraphic dispatch from the London reporter that my brother St. George is quite ill in London.”
“Ill!” almost shrieked poor Floy.