Sauntering back to his hotel, Mr. Dillwyn's thoughts were a good deal engaged with the impressions of the last hour. It was odd, too; he had seen all varieties and descriptions of feminine fascination, or he thought he had; some of them in very high places, and with all the adventitious charms which wealth and place and breeding can add to those of nature's giving. Yet here was something new. A novelty as fresh as one of the daisies Mrs. Wishart had spoken of. He had seen daisies too before, he thought; and was not particularly fond of that style. No; this was something other than a daisy.
Sauntering along and not heeding his surroundings, he was suddenly hailed by a joyful voice, and an arm was thrust within his own.
"Philip! where did you come from? and when did you come?"
"Only the other day—from Egypt—was coming to see you, but have been bothered with custom-house business. How do you all do, Tom?"
"What are you bringing over? curiosities? or precious things?"
"Might be both. How do you do, old boy?"
"Very much put out, just at present, by a notion of my mother's; she will go to Florida to escape March winds."
"Florida! Well, Florida is a good place, when March is stalking abroad like this. What are you put out for? I don't comprehend."
"Yes, but you see, the month will be half over before she gets ready to be off; and what's the use? April will be here directly; she might just as well wait here for April."
"You cannot pick oranges off the trees here in April. You forget that."