"
"Edna, dear! You mustn't."
"Why mustn't I?" replied Edna, pouring tea. "Truth's truth. He's your
father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would
do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have
better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why
doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the
reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own
projects. You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read
your father like a book the first time he ever met him."
Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked
very wise and penetrative.
"I should think your father himself would be happier," said he, "if he
lived less privately and had more of men's society."
"He's often in poor health," replied Florence.
"In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium,
where the life is as luxurious as can be."
"I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he--weren't altogether
unselfish about me, there would always be my promise."
"What does that matter--such a promise?" inquired Edna, between sips of
tea.
"You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear," said
Florence, smiling. "But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred."
"Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?"
"No, not all," replied Larcher. "It's like this: When you make a bad
promise, you inaugurate a wrong.
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