“Why?”
“Because—because—I love you.”
“Oh! That’s no reason.”
“I know it; but I’m used to being without a reason.”
Florida looked gravely at his penitent face, and a brave red color mantled her own, while she advanced an unanswerable argument: “Then what are you going away for?”
The world seemed to melt and float away from between them. It returned and solidified at the sound of the janitor’s steps as he came towards them on his round through the empty building. Ferris caught her hand; she leaned heavily upon his arm as they walked out into the street. It was all they could do at the moment except to look into each other’s faces, and walk swiftly on.
At last, after how long a time he did not know, Ferris cried: “Where are we going, Florida?”
“Why, I don’t know!” she replied. “I’m stopping with those friends of ours at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. We were going on to Providence to-morrow. We landed yesterday; and we stayed to do some shopping”—
“And may I ask why you happened to give your first moments in America to the fine arts?”
“The fine arts? Oh! I thought I might find something of yours, there!”