“Very well.  You will see neither of them, then.  I won’t have a man insulted without cause in my own house.  I’ll tell them both you’re sick.”

“If you do,” flamed Florence, “I’ll never forgive you!  You’re—­horrid, if you are my father.  I—­” She took refuge in tears.  “Oh, you ought to be ashamed to treat your daughter so!”

The Englishman flicked a speck of ash off his lounging coat.  “I am ashamed,” he admitted; “but not of what you suggest.”  He turned toward the door.

“Daddy,” said a pleading voice, “don’t you—­care for me any more?”

An expression the daughter had never seen before, but one that ever after haunted her, flashed over the father’s face.

“Care for you?” he exclaimed.  “Care for you?  That is just the trouble!  I care for you—­have always cared for you—­too much.  I have sacrificed my self-respect to humor you, and it’s all been a mistake.  I see it now too late.”

For a moment the two looked at each other; then the girl brushed past him.  “Very well,” she said calmly, “if I must see them both, at least permit me to see them by myself.”

The men on the porch arose as Florence appeared.  Their manner of doing so was characteristic of each.  Sidwell got to his feet languidly, a bit stiffly.  He had not forgotten the past week.  Ben Blair arose respectfully, almost reverently, unconscious that he was following a mere social form.  Six months had passed since he had seen this little woman, and his soul was in his eyes as he looked at her.

Just without the door the girl halted, her color like the sunset.  It was the city man she greeted first.

“I’m very glad to see you again,” she said, and a dainty hand went out to meet his own.

Sidwell was human.  He smiled, and his hand detained hers longer than was really necessary.

“And I’m happy indeed to have you back,” he responded.  “I missed you.”

The girl turned to the impassive but observing Benjamin.

“I am glad to see you, too, Mr. Blair,” she said, but the voice was as formal as the handshake.  “Papa introduced you to Mr. Sidwell, I suppose?”

Her reserve was quite unnecessary.  Outwardly, Ben was as coldly polite as she.  He placed a chair for her deferentially and took another himself, while Sidwell watched the scene with interest.  Somewhere, some time, if he lived, that moment would be reproduced on a printed page.

“Yes,” responded Ben, “Mr. Sidwell and I have met.”  He turned his chair so that he and the girl faced each other.  “You like the city, your new life, as well as you expected, I trust?”

They chatted a few minutes as impersonally as two chance acquaintances meeting by accident; then again Ben arose.  “I judge you were going driving,” he said simply.  “I’ll not detain you longer.”

Florence melted.  Such delicate consideration was unexpected.

“You must call again while you are in town,” she said.