Standing as she had left him, his hat in his hand, Clarence Sidwell watched her pass through the lighted vestibule into the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER XVIII

PAINTER AND PICTURE

Scotty Baker dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred the mixture carefully, glancing the while smilingly at his wife and daughter.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed; “it seems good to be back here again.”

Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, but Florence returned the smile companionably.

“And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy,” she replied.  “Just think of our being alone, a pair of poor defenceless women, three whole months without a man about the house!  If you ever dare do it again you’re liable to find one in your place when you return.  Isn’t he, mamma?”

Her mother looked up reproachfully.  “For shame, Florence!” she cried.

But Scotty only observed his daughter quizzically.  “I did—­almost, this time, didn’t I?” he bantered.  “By the way, who is this wonderful being, this Sidwell, I’ve heard so much about the last few hours?” He was as obtuse as a post to his wife’s meaning look.  “Tell me about him, won’t you?”

Florence laughed a bit unnaturally.  It seemed her words had a way of returning like a boomerang.

“He’s a writer,” she explained laconically.

“A writer?” Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee between the cup and his mouth.  “A real one?”

The smile left the girl’s face.  “His family is one of the oldest in the city,” she explained coldly.  “His work sells by the thousand.  You can judge for yourself.”

Scotty sipped his coffee impassively, but behind the big glasses the twinkle left his eyes.

“The inference you suggest would have been more obvious if you hadn’t made the first remark,” he said a little sharply.  “I’ve noticed the matter of good family has quite an influence in this world.”

The subject was dropped, but nevertheless it left its aftermath.  Easy-going Scotty did not often say an unpleasant thing, and for that very reason Florence knew that when he did it had an especial significance.

“By the way,” he observed after a moment, “we ought to celebrate to-day in some manner.  I rather expected to find a band at the station to welcome me yesterday upon my return, but I didn’t, and I fear there’s been no public demonstration arranged.  What do you say to our packing up our dinner, taking the elevated, and spending the day in the country?  What say you, Mollie?”

His wife looked at her daughter helplessly.  “Just as Florence says.  I’m willing,” she replied.

“What speaks the oracle?” smiled Scotty.  “Shall we or shall we not?  Personally, I feel a desire for cooling springs, to step on a good-sized plat of green without having a watchful bluecoat loom in the distance.”