"I think, under the circumstances," he stammered, "it would be better to have your father go too."
The dainty brown figure stiffened.
"Very well, then—I will not go!"
The man stood for a moment immovable, with unshifting eyes, like a figure in clay; then, turning, without a word, he started to leave the room. He had almost reached the door, when he heard a voice behind him.
"Ben Blair," it said insistently, "Ben Blair!"
He paused, glanced back, and could scarcely believe his eyes. The girl was coming toward him; but it was a Florence he had not previously known. Her face was rosier than before, red to her very ears and to the waves of her hair. Her chin was held high, and beneath the thin brown skin of the throat the veins were athrob.
"Ben Blair," she repeated intensely, "Ben Blair, can't you understand what I meant? Must I put it into words?" The soft brown eyes were looking at him frankly. "Oh, you are blind, blind!"
For a second, like the lull before the thunderclap, the man did not move; then of a sudden he grasped the girl by the shoulders, and held her at arm's length.
"Florence," he cried, "are you playing with me?"
She spoke no word, but her gaze held his unfalteringly.