Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table and went into the library. Florence sat for a moment abstractedly; then with her old impulsive manner she followed him.
"Daddy," the girl's arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressed against his, "I'm awful sorry I can't go with you to-day. I'd like to, really."
But for one of the very few times that Florence could remember her father did not respond. Instead, he removed her arms rather coldly.
"Oh, that's all right," he said; "I hope you'll have a good time." And picking up the morning paper he lit a cigar and moved toward the shady veranda.
Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to prevent his leaving her in that way. But she hesitated and the moment passed.
Yet, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker's morning, by afternoon it had departed. Sidwell's carriage came promptly, creating something of a stir behind the drawn shades of the adjoining residences—for the Bakers were not located in a fashionable quarter. Sidwell himself, immaculate, smiling, greeted her with the deference which became him well, and in itself conveyed a delicate compliment. Neither made any reference to the incident of the night before. His manner gave no hint of the constraint which under the circumstances might have been expected. A few months before, the girl would have thought he had taken her request literally, and had forgotten; but now she knew better. In this fascinating new life one could pass pleasantries with one's dearest enemy and still smile. In the old life, under similar circumstances, there would have been gun-play, and probably later a funeral; but here—they knew better how to live. Already, in the few social events she had attended, she had seen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with knives—to emerge unhurt, unruffled. To be sure, she could not herself do it—yet; but she understood, and admired.
Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within the high walled gallery it was cool and pleasant. Florence had been there before, but earlier in the season, and many other visitors were present. To-day she and Sidwell were practically alone, and she faced him with a little receptive gesture.
"You're always getting me to talk," she said. "To-day I'm going to exchange places. Don't expect me to do anything but listen."
Sidwell smiled. "Won't you even condescend to suggest channels in which my discourse may flow?" he bantered.
The girl hesitated. "Perhaps," she ventured, "if I find it necessary."