The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared.
“What is it, dear?” were almost her first words. “Why do you look so serious?”
“I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very delicate matter.”
Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had to be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly lady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so the young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who have lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the inmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile.
Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies.
Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. “Now tell Florence all about it, from the beginning.”
“Have you told her whom it concerns?” he asked Edna.
“I haven't told her a word.”
“Well, then, I think she'd better know first”—he turned to Florence—“that it concerns somebody we met through her—through you, Miss Kenby. But we think the importance of the matter justifies—”
“Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “He's nothing to Florence. We're perfectly free to speak of him as we like.—It's about Mr. Turl, dear.”