they meant.  They seemed to have some good reason for protecting a third party, and said quite a good deal about their fathers and mothers being but mortal and so on; so Henry and Herbert thought they oughtn’t to expose this third party—­whoever she may happen to be.  Well, I thought they better not stay too long, because I was compromised enough already, without being seen in their company; and I gave ’em something to help ’em out with at the movies.  You can stay at movies an awful long time, and if you’ve got money enough to go to several of ’em, why, you’re fixed for pretty near as long as you please.  A body ought to be able to live a couple o’ months at the movies for nine or ten dollars, I should think.”

He was silent for a time, then asked, “I don’t suppose your papa and mamma will be worrying about you, will they, Florence?”

“Oh, no!” she said quickly.  “Not in the least!  There was nothin’ at all for me to do at our house this afternoon.”

“That’s good,” he said, “because before we go back I was thinking some of driving around by way of Texas.”

Florence looked at him trustfully and said nothing.  It seemed to her that he suspected something; she was not sure; but his conversation was a little peculiar, though not in the least sinister.  Indeed she was able to make out that he had more the air of an accomplice than of a prosecutor or a detective.  Nevertheless, she was convinced that far, far the best course for her to pursue, during the next few days, would be one of steadfast reserve.  And such a course was congenial to her mood, which was subdued, not to say apprehensive; though she was sure her recent conduct, if viewed sympathetically, would be found at least Christian.  The trouble was that probably it would not be viewed sympathetically.  No one would understand how carefully and tactfully she had prepared the items of the Oriole to lead suavely up to the news of Aunt Julia’s engagement and break it to Noble Dill in a manner that would save his reason.

Therefore, on account of this probable lack of comprehension on the part of the family and public, it seemed to her that the only wise and good course to follow would be to claim nothing for herself, but to allow Herbert and Henry to remain undisturbed in full credit for publishing the Oriole.  This involved a disappointment, it is true; nevertheless, she decided to bear it.

She had looked forward to surprising “the family” delightfully.  As they fluttered in exclamation about her, she had expected to say, “Oh, the poem isn’t so much, I guess—­I wrote it quite a few days ago and I’m writing a couple new ones now—­but I did take quite a lot o’ time and trouble with the rest of the paper, because I had to write every single word of it, or else let Henry and Herbert try to, and ’course they’d just of ruined it.  Oh, it isn’t so much to talk about, I guess; it just sort of comes to me to do things that way.”