The days slipped by anxiously enough to the Hibberts—to Walter, for he knew that Mr. Fisher meant to talk with Florence about something that had been agreed between them at the office; to Florence, because without increasing the bills she really could not manage to put that little dinner together. Walter was particular; he liked luxuries, and things well managed, and she could not bear to disappoint him. However, the evening came at last. The flowers and dessert were arranged, the claret was at the right temperature, the champagne was in ice. Florence went upstairs to say good-night to the children, and to rest for five minutes. Walter came in with a flower for her dress.
“It is so like you,” she said as she kissed it; “you are always the thoughtfullest old man in the world.”
“I wished I had bought one for Aunt Anne as I came along in the hansom; but I forgot it at first, and then I was afraid to go back because it was getting so late.”
He dressed and went downstairs. Florence leisurely began to get ready. Ten minutes later a carriage stopped; a bell rang, there was a loud double knock—some one had arrived.
“But it is a quarter of an hour too soon?” she said in dismay to Maria who was helping her.
The maid stood on tiptoe by the window to see who the early comer might be.
“It’s only Mrs. Baines, ma’am.”
They had learned to say “only” already, Florence thought. She was angry at the word, yet relieved at its not being a more important visitor.
“I am very vexed at not being dressed to receive her,” she said coldly, in order to give Mrs. Baines importance. “Make haste and fasten my dress, Maria.”
There was a sound of some one coming upstairs, a rustle of silk, and a gentle knock at the bedroom door.