Florence fingered the linen of the tablecloth with genuine discomfort.  “You two can go.  I’ll help you get ready,” she ventured at last.  “I’m sorry, but I promised Mr. Sidwell last night I’d visit the art gallery with him this afternoon.  He says they’ve some new canvases hung lately, one of them by a particular friend of his.  He’s such a student of art, and I know so little about it that I hate to miss going.”

Again the smile left Scotty’s eyes.  “Can’t you write a note explaining, and postpone the visit until some other time?” It took quite an effort for this undemonstrative Englishman to make the request.

The girl glanced out the window with a look her father understood very well.  “I hardly think so,” she said.  “He’s going away for the Summer soon, and his time is limited.”

Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table and went into the library.  Florence sat for a moment abstractedly; then with her old impulsive manner she followed him.

“Daddy,” the girl’s arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressed against his, “I’m awful sorry I can’t go with you to-day.  I’d like to, really.”

But for one of the very few times that Florence could remember her father did not respond.  Instead, he removed her arms rather coldly.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said; “I hope you’ll have a good time.”  And picking up the morning paper he lit a cigar and moved toward the shady veranda.

Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to prevent his leaving her in that way.  But she hesitated and the moment passed.

Yet, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker’s morning, by afternoon it had departed.  Sidwell’s carriage came promptly, creating something of a stir behind the drawn shades of the adjoining residences—­for the Bakers were not located in a fashionable quarter.  Sidwell himself, immaculate, smiling, greeted her with the deference which became him well, and in itself conveyed a delicate compliment.  Neither made any reference to the incident of the night before.  His manner gave no hint of the constraint which under the circumstances might have been expected.  A few months before, the girl would have thought he had taken her request literally, and had forgotten; but now she knew better.  In this fascinating new life one could pass pleasantries with one’s dearest enemy and still smile.  In the old life, under similar circumstances, there would have been gun-play, and probably later a funeral; but here—­they knew better how to live.  Already, in the few social events she had attended, she had seen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with knives—­to emerge unhurt, unruffled.  To be sure, she could not herself do it—­yet; but she understood, and admired.

Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within the high walled gallery it was cool and pleasant.  Florence had been there before, but earlier in the season, and many other visitors were present.  To-day she and Sidwell were practically alone, and she faced him with a little receptive gesture.