“’Cool,” Billy said.

“He’s going over to the kindergarten.  I’ve got some work I ought to finish here,” Barry supplemented.”  I’ll take you across the street, Infant, I’ll be right back, Sidney.”

“But, Barry, why are you working now?” asked the lady a few minutes later when he took his place at his desk.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” he answered, smiling; “I love it.  The thought of old Rogers’ face when he opens his paper every morning does me good, I’m writing this appeal for the new reservoir now, and I’ve got to play up the Flower Festival.”

“I’m not interested in the Flower Festival,” said Mrs. Burgoyne good-naturedly, “and the minute it’s over I’m going to start a crusade for a girls’ clubhouse in Old Paloma.  Conditions over there for the girls are something hideous.  But I suppose we’ll have to go on with the Festival for the present.  It’s a great occasion, I suppose?”

“Oh, tremendous!  The Governor’s coming, and thousands of visitors always pour into town.  We’ll have nearly a hundred carriages in the parade, simply covered with flowers, you know.  It’s lovely!  You wait until things get fairly started!”

“That’ll be Fourth of July,” Sidney said thoughtfully, turning back to her exchanges, “I’ll begin my clubhouse crusade on the fifth!” she added firmly.

For a long time there was silence in the office, except for the rustling of paper and the scratch of pens.  From the sunny world out-of-doors came a pleasant blending of many noises, passing wagons, the low talk of chickens, the slamming of gates, and now and then the not unmusical note of a fish-horn.  Footsteps and laughing voices went by, and died into silence.  The clock from Town Hall Square struck eleven slowly.

“This is darned pleasant,” said Barry presently, over his work.

“Isn’t it?” said the editor of the “Women’s Page,” and again there was silence.

After a while Barry said “Finished!” with a great breath, and, leaning back in his chair, wheeled about to find the lady quietly watching him.

“Barry, are you working too hard?” said she, quite unembarrassed.

“Am I?  Lord, not I wish the days were twice as long.  I”—­Barry rumpled his thick hair with a gesture that was familiar to Sidney now—­“I guess work agrees with me.  By George, I hate to eat, and I hate to sleep; I want to be down here all the time, or else rustling up subscriptions and ’ads.’,”

“And I thought you were lazy,” said Sidney, finding herself, for the first time in their friendship, curiously inclined to keep the conversation personal, this warm June morning.  It was a thing extremely difficult to do, with Barry.  “You certainly gave me that impression,” she said.

“Yes; but that was two months ago,” said Barry, off guard.  A second later he changed the topic abruptly by asking, “Did your roses come?”

“All of them,” answered Sidney pleasantly.  And vaguely conscious of mischief in the air, but led on by some inexplicable whim, she pursued, “Do you mean that it makes such a difference to you, Rogers being gone?”