“Isn’t she? As whom?”
Floyd took hold of the child’s hand and said, “Let’s go and get some supper.”
“I don’t like her,” said the little girl, positively.
“Don’t you?” said Floyd. He stopped and glanced across the room toward where the girl had stood. He saw only the gleam of her fine shoulders as she disappeared in the crowd surrounded by her admirers.
A little later Floyd met the young lady on the stairway. He had not recognized her, and was passing on, when she spoke to him.
“I saw you talking to a little friend of mine,” she began, then—“Over in the corner,” she explained.
“Oh! yes. She is sweet. They interest me. I always feel when I have talked with a child as if I had got as near to the angels as one can get on earth.”
“Do you know I was very anxious to meet you,” she said.
“Were you? Thank you. Why?”
“Because of a line of yours I once read.”