"We will send many roses to her room; and Francisco shall pick the large Indian basket full of fruit—she will be so tired with the long journey."
"Thank you," murmured the Professor, vaguely.
He did not hear Francisca's caution to her brother: "Do not pick any of the heliotrope, Francisco, for the heavy scent may be disagreeable to an old lady—and only the very choicest peaches—old people must be careful what they eat." But this was not needed for his confusion.
"How well you are looking!" exclaimed Miss Dysart, as she stepped from the train the next morning, with a critical glance at the Professor.
"The only climate on earth," replied the Professor, laughing to hide a shade of embarrassment; "and you—you are looking well, too."
Distinctly well, in her immaculate shirtwaist and sailor-hat, without touch of travel or dust about her.
"Oh, all climates suit me—even our own," Miss Dysart answered, lightly.
"Only one trunk, thank you; I am a 'transient.' And so this is your earthly paradise. Is that ferny thing a pepper-tree?"
She was so much absorbed in the landscape all through the short drive that the Professor ended by feeling quite at his ease. At the hotel door she dismissed him graciously.
"You may come back after lunch, if you like, and show me something of your paradise."