t, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker's morning, by afternoon it
had departed. Sidwell's carriage came promptly, creating something of a
stir behind the drawn shades of the adjoining residences--for the Bakers
were not located in a fashionable quarter. Sidwell himself, immaculate,
smiling, greeted her with the deference which became him well, and in
itself conveyed a delicate compliment. Neither made any reference to the
incident of the night before. His manner gave no hint of the constraint
which under the circumstances might have been expected. A few months
before, the girl would have thought he had taken her request literally,
and had forgotten; but now she knew better. In this fascinating new life
one could pass pleasantries with one's dearest enemy and still smile. In
the old life, under similar circumstances, there would have been
gun-play, and probably later a funeral; but here--they knew better how
to live. Already, in the few social events she had attended, she had
seen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with knives--to emerge
unhurt, unruffled. To be sure, she could not herself do it--yet; but she
understood, and admired.

Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within the high walled
gallery it was cool and pleasant. Florence had been there before, but
earlier in the season, and many other visitors were present. To-day she
and Sidwell were practically alone, and she faced him with a little
receptive gesture.

"You're always getting me to talk," she said. "To-day I'm going to
exchange places. Don't expect me to do anything but listen."

Sidwell smiled. "Won't you even condescend to suggest channels in which
my discourse may flow?" he bantered.

The girl hesitated. "Perhaps," she ventured, "if I find it necessary."

For an hour they wandered about, moving slowly, and pausing often to
rest. Sidwell talked well, but somewhat impersonally. At last, in an
out-of-the-way corner, they came to the modest canvas of his friend, and
they sat down before it. The picture was unnamed and unsigned. Without
being extraordinary as a work of art, its subject lent its chief claim
to distinction. Interested because her companion seemed interested,
Florence looked at it steadily. At first there appeared to her nothing
but a mountain, steep and rugged, and a weary man who, climbing it, had
lain down to rest. Far down at the mountain's base she saw where the
figure had begun its ascent. The way was easy there,