Helen looked at him steadily, uncertain of just how far he had surmised her secret thought. There was nothing in the calm, unruffled expression which gave her even an inkling as to whether her peculiar sensation was caused by his intuition or her own self-consciousness. Then her gaze relaxed, and she laughed half-heartedly.
“You have mislaid your divining-cap this time,” Helen said at length. “If you had really read my mind your advice would have been quite different.”
Uncle Peabody was undisturbed. “In that case you will exercise your woman’s prerogative and change it within the next twenty-four hours. When that has taken place you will find that my advice fits it exactly.”
“I wish I had your confidence, Uncle Peabody.” Helen rose suddenly and held out her hand to her companion. “Come, let us go into the sunlight, where things look more cheerful.”
Uncle Peabody watched the figure militant as Helen preceded him down the broad aisle, past the small altars, and out into the air. He recalled this same attitude when Helen had been a child, and he remembered the determination and the strength of will which went with it at that time. He had forgotten this characteristic in meeting his niece grown to womanhood and in the midst of such apparently congenial surroundings. Now he felt that he knew the occasion for its reappearance.
Inez and Jack soon joined them, and together they returned to the hotel. A few moments later the car was gliding back toward Florence again, in the refreshing cool of the afternoon, with changed color effects to give new impressions to the panorama of the morning. They were almost home when Armstrong turned suddenly to Helen:
“How absolutely stupid of me!” he said, abruptly. “I met Phil Emory on the Lung’ Arno yesterday and asked him to take dinner with us to-night.” Armstrong looked at his watch. “We shall be just about in time, anyhow, but I am sorry not to have told you about it.”