“No,” Florence said quietly, “it isn’t wise to hurry—at least not for a man.” She smiled at this, then gave the girl a pat on the cheek.
She found herself considerably disturbed as she stepped into the little parlor.
“Ah!” Hugo, the magnificent, sprang to his feet at sight of her. And he was, in his own way, magnificent,—bright blue suit, orange colored tie, a flower in his buttonhole, a smile showing all his white teeth. “Ah, Miss Huyler. I came to congratulate you, to tell you how wonderful the party was last night. You certainly are a marvelous hostess. We of the mill—”
He broke short off to stare at something on the wall. He stood there for a count of ten, then he murmured, “How exquisite! How charmingly beautiful!”
He was looking at a picture. It was indeed beautiful. Done by a very great artist who had chanced to visit the little city, it was carefully done,—a picture of a very beautiful face.
“Yes,” Florence said quietly, “that is a picture of Verna, the daughter of this house.”
“Do you mean to say she lives—that she is real!” The man’s astonishment was genuine.
“Yes,” Florence replied.
“I must meet her.” Hugo smiled a dazzling smile.
“She’s only a child in high school.”