“You!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, I never thought you would come and see me at all; but now—oh, it is good of you! Did you think how glad I should be?”
“I didn’t know whether you would care to see me or not,” Florence said, surprised at her delight.
“Care?” Mrs. North almost gasped, and Florence fancied that her lip quivered; “indeed I do, only no one—won’t you sit down?”—and she made a cosy corner on a low couch, with a pile of soft, silk-covered cushions.
“I was so sorry not to be able to come and see you last year——”
“I quite understand,” Mrs. North said, and the colour rushed to her face. “I did not expect it.”
“You were so kind about Madame Celestine”—Florence went on, thinking that she, too, would have a heap of down cushions in her drawing-room, and not noticing Mrs. North’s confusion—“and about all those dreadful bills.”
“Yes, I remember. Then you did not stay away on purpose?” Mrs. North leaned forward while she spoke, and waited breathlessly for the answer.
“Why, of course not.” A happy look came over the girlish face.
“And did you come now to tell me about Mrs. Baines? I should love to hear about her. Of course I knew she would not write. Was she very angry at my paying the bill?”
“Well, no——” and Florence hesitated.