And there Otho Maury found them when he made his call. He crushed an oath under his black mustache as he asked, eagerly:
“Is Miss Fane at home?”
“Lor’, Mr. Maury, are you the one that sent her the flowers?”
“Yes,” he replied, coldly.
“Oh, sir, I’m sorry to tell you, but she burned your letter and gave me the roses, and told me to say she was not at home!” blurted out Mrs. Horton, in her amasement at Floy’s antagonism to this charming exquisite.
Otho repressed his rage, and said, gratingly:
“That’s strange. Wonder how I have offended the young woman? She used to be awfully fond of me at Mount Vernon. There’s some misunderstanding, and if I could see her one moment I know I could set it straight with the pretty little vixen. Mightn’t I just go up and knock at her door?”
“I don’t see as there’d be any great harm, sir. It’s the fourth flight, No. 19.”
Floy had forgotten to lock her door after Mrs. Horton went, she was so angrily intent on setting a match to Otho’s letter.
“How dare he persecute me so?” she cried, with flashing eyes as she watched it shrivel to ashes.