Florida drew a long breath, and rose to go on with the work of packing.
“Have you been crying, Florida? Well, of course, you can’t help feeling sorry for such a man. There’s a great deal of good in Don Ippolito, a great deal. But when you come to my age you won’t cry so easily, my dear. It’s very trying,” said Mrs. Vervain. She sat awhile in silence before she asked: “Will he come here to-morrow morning?”
Her daughter looked at her with a glance of terrified inquiry.
“Do have your wits about you, my dear! We can’t go away without saying good-by to him, and we can’t go away without paying him.”
“Paying him?”
“Yes, paying him—paying him for your lessons. It’s always been very awkward. He hasn’t been like other teachers, you know: more like a guest, or friend of the family. He never seemed to want to take the money, and of late, I’ve been letting it run along, because I hated so to offer it, till now, it’s quite a sum. I suppose he needs it, poor fellow. And how to get it to him is the question. He may not come to-morrow, as usual, and I couldn’t trust it to the padrone. We might send it to him in a draft from Paris, but I’d rather pay him before we go. Besides, it would be rather rude, going away without seeing him again.” Mrs. Vervain thought a moment; then, “I’ll tell you,” she resumed. “If he doesn’t happen to come here to-morrow morning, we can stop on our way to the station and give him the money.”
Florida did not answer.
“Don’t you think that would be a good plan?”
“I don’t know,” replied the girl in a dull way.
“Why, Florida, if you think from anything Don Ippolito said that he would rather not see us again—that it would be painful to him—why, we could ask Mr. Ferris to hand him the money.”