“I’d love to see the babies, darling,” she said; “I’m just crazy about babies.”

“They are out in the Park.  I’m so sorry.  Perhaps they are coming in now, I hear the door-bell.”

But it was George instead of the children; and he entered presently with a moody look, which vanished quickly before the brilliant vision of Florrie.

“I thought I heard you,” he observed with the casual intimacy of an old playmate, “so I came in.  Have you got fixed yet?  What about the apartment?  You’d better let me help you hunt for it?”

“Oh, I’m not sure about the apartment.  I may take a house—­a teeny weeny one, you know,” said Florrie, as she bent softly toward him, scented and blooming.  If one didn’t know there wasn’t really a bit of harm in her, one would be puzzled just what to think of her, Gabriella reflected.  Amid the perfect order of Gabriella’s inner life, the controlled emotion, the serene efficiency, the balanced power, Florrie’s noisy beauty produced a disturbing effect.  She liked her because she had known her from childhood, and it was impossible to think any harm of a girl one had played with at school; but she could not deny that Florrie was vulgar.  As a matter of fact, Florrie’s mother had been vulgar before her, and the thin strain of refinement inherited from her father’s stock had obviously been overborne by the torrential vulgarity of the maternal blood.

“A house?  Well, that’s even better,” replied George.  “I’ve no use for apartments, have I, Gabriella?”

His effrontery was incredible!  That he should joke about his broken promise before Florrie amazed Gabriella even after her disillusioning experience with him.

“Then I’ll get you to help me.  Will you lend him to me, darling?” trilled Florrie piercingly from the door, where she stood in a striking pose which revealed her “fine figure” to the best advantage.  The request was directed to Gabriella, but her blue eyes mocked a challenge to George while she spoke.

“Oh, I’ll give him,” answered Gabriella pleasantly.  There was no harm in it, she told herself innocently again; but it was a pity that Florrie, with her remarkable beauty, should be quite so ill bred.

Five minutes later when George came back from putting Florrie into her hansom, he remarked carelessly: 

“She’s got a figure all right.”

“Yes, she looks beautiful in black.  No wonder she won’t leave it off.”

“By Jove, to think it’s little Florrie!  Why, I don’t believe there’s a finer figure in New York.  When she passed by the club yesterday the men were breaking their necks to look out of the window.”  Then, as if struck by a sudden suspicion, he added quickly:  “Where did she get her money from?  I thought Algy died rather hard up.”

“I never heard much about it.  Mrs. Spencer must give her something.”

“I don’t believe the old lady has a penny over three thousand a year, and that won’t do in New York.  This Westcott didn’t have anything, did he?”