I caught eagerly at the suggestion, for the imaged face of Florence Hay had obtruded between my eyes and endless Greek roots a great many times during the past four years.  I was glad of an excuse to see once more the face itself.

Armed with my letter of introduction, a glass jar of tomatoes, and arrayed in my best suit, I rang the bell at the door of Mr. Hay.  A servant girl admitted me, and showed me directly into the room where Florence was sitting.

How very beautiful she had grown during my absence!  I had never seen so fair a vision!  She rose at my entrance, and, bowing with inimitable grace, extended her hand.

“Am I correct in believing that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Sunderland?” she said, with gentle politeness.

I bowed—­the jar slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor; I made a hasty movement to take the hand she had offered me, and in so doing put my foot on the jar; it was crushed to atoms, and the seeds and syrup flew in every direction!  The obstacle beneath my feet made me stagger; I grasped the folds of a window-curtain in the hope of saving myself, but my equilibrium was too far gone—­down came the curtain—­over I went, head first, against a flower-stand, on which were a nondescript array of flowerpots, a canary bird in a cage, and a big Maltese cat in a basket.

The force of my fall upset the stand, and, with all its favorites, it turned over on the carpet!  Plants, cat, bird, cage, and Roy Sunderland, all lay in one mass of ruin together at the feet of the astonished Miss Hay.  The cat was the first to recover her presence of mind, and with a “midnight cry” which would have appalled the stoutest heart, she sprang into my face, tearing up the skin with a violence worthy the admiration of all persons who believe in the wisdom of “getting at the root of a matter” at once.

I scrambled up—­gave the animal a blow that sent her to the other side of the room—­and hatless, and bloody, made for the door.  With frantic haste I seized the handle—­it did not yield; the door was fastened by a spring lock, and I was a prisoner!

Imagine my dismay!  Florence stood looking at me, and there was a smile on her face that she, with great difficulty restrained from breaking into a decided ha! ha!  Just then I would have sold myself to any reliable man for a six-pence, and thirty days credit.

Mortified and crestfallen, I was strongly inclined to follow the example of the heroines in sensation novels, and burst into tears; but crying, it is said, makes the nose red, and, remembering this, I forbore.

I suppose Florence pitied me; she must have seen from the woe begone expression of my face that I was in the last stages of human endurance, for she came quietly to my side and laid her hand on my arm.

“Come in, Roy,” she said, kindly—­almost tenderly, I thought—­and drew me into a small boudoir opposite the sitting-room.  Things in the latter apartment were too nearly wrecked to make it pleasant for occupation, I suppose.