sonal. "It
means, Florence Baker--"

But the sentence was not completed. As suddenly as the change had come
to the man's face, the girl had understood. With an impulse she could
not have explained to herself, she had drawn away and swiftly mounted
the steps of the house. Not until she reached the porch did she turn.

"Don't, don't, please!" she urged. "I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have
asked what I did. Forget that I spoke at all." She was struggling for
words, for breath. Her color came and went. "Good-night." And not
trusting herself to look back, oblivious of courtesy, she almost ran
into the house.

Standing as she had left him, his hat in his hand, Clarence Sidwell
watched her pass through the lighted vestibule into the darkness
beyond.

CHAPTER XVIII

PAINTER AND PICTURE

Scotty Baker dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred the
mixture carefully, glancing the while smilingly at his wife and
daughter.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed; "it seems good to be back here again."

Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, but Florence
returned the smile companionably.

"And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy," she replied. "Just
think of our being alone, a pair of poor defenceless women, three whole
months without a man about the house! If you ever dare do it again
you're liable to find one in your place when you return. Isn't he,
mamma?"

Her mother looked up reproachfully. "For shame, Florence!" she cried.

But Scotty only observed his daughter quizzically. "I did--almost, this
time, didn't I?" he bantered. "By the way, who is this wonderful being,
this Sidwell, I've heard so much about the last few hours?" He was as
obtuse as a post to his wife's meaning look. "Tell me about him, won't
you?"

Florence laughed a bit unnaturally. It seemed her words had a way of
returning like a boomerang.

"He's a writer," she explained laconically.

"A writer?" Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee between the cup and
his mouth. "A real one?"

The smile left the girl's face. "His family is one of the oldest in the
city," she explained coldly. "His work sells by the thousand. You can
judge for yourself."

Scotty sipped his coffee impassively, but behind the big glasses the
twinkle left his eyes.

"The inference you suggest would have been more obvious if you hadn't
made the first remark," he said a little sharply. "I've noticed the
matter of good family has quite an influence