large suite on the second floor, where he had to wait an hour in a
lofty anteroom with no other company but a statue of Pocahontas.
He was oppressed by the gorgeousness of the surroundings--by the
frowning pictures, the gilt furniture, the onyx-topped tables, the
vases, the mirrors, the ornate clocks. He was in a fever of
expectation, and could not fight down his growing timidity. He had
not seen Florence for a year, and his heart would have been as
much in his mouth had the meeting been set in the old brick house
at Bridgeport. At least he said so to himself, not caring to
confess that he was daunted by the magnificence of the apartment.

At length the door opened and she came in. She stood for a moment
with her hand on the knob and looked at him; then she came over to
him with a little rush and took his outstretched hand. He had
forgotten how beautiful she was, or probably he had never really
known, as he had never beheld her before in one of those wonderful
French creations that cost each one a fortune. He stumbled over
his words of greeting, and his hand trembled as he held hers.

"Oh, Frank," she said, noticing his agitation. "Are you still
silly enough to care?"

"I am afraid I do, Florence," he said, blushing like a boy at her
unexpected question. "What's the good of asking me that?"

"You are looking handsome, Frank," she ran on. "I am proud of you.
You have the nicest hair of any man I know!"

"I daren't say how stunning you look, Florence," he returned.