Larcher for once did not deplore the
instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about.
Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day;
she would send a cab for her, to make sure.
The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly
impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared.
"What is it, dear?" were almost her first words. "Why do you look
so serious?"
"I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom
will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very
delicate matter."
Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her
wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough
to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had
to be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly
lady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so
the young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who
have lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the
inmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile.
Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand
before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the
blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an
armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies.
Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel.
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