he went away, and though no word of love had yet been spoken
between them, he was conscious of her increasing inclination for
him and her increasing dependence. Having already won so much it
seemed as though his passionate devotion could not fail to turn
the scale and bring her to that admission he felt it was on her
lips to make. So he strode through the narrow streets, telling
himself a fairy story of how it all might be, with a little house
of their own and she waiting for him on the wharf when his ship
made fast; a story that never grew stale in the repetition, but
which, please God, would come true in the end, with Florence his
wife, and all his doubtings and heart-aches over.

Florence opened the door for him herself and gave a little cry of
surprise and welcome as they shook hands, for in all their
acquaintance there had never been a kiss between them. It was all
he could do not to catch her in his arms, for as she smiled up at
him, so radiant and beautiful and happy, it seemed as if it were
his right and that he had been a fool to have ever questioned her
love for him. He followed her into the sitting-room, laughing like
a child with pleasure and thrilled through and through with the
sound of her voice and the touch of her hand and the vague, subtle
perfume of her whole being. His laughter died away, however, as he
saw what the room contained. Over the chairs, over the sofa, over
the table, in the stacked and open pasteboard boxes on the floor,
were dresses and evening gowns outspread with the profusion of a
splendid shop, and even to his unpractised eyes, costly and
magnificent beyond anything he had ever seen before. Florence
swept an opera cloak from a chair and made him sit down, watching
him the while with a charming gaiety and excitement. At such a
moment it seemed to him positively heartless.