her.

“No,” he replied, his hand on the door, “I lunch in town; you won’t see me till evening.” The child’s face fell, and she turned silently away.

I went out quickly, and overtook him before he reached the corner of the street. “That child seems to have taken quite a fancy to you,” I said quietly; “I never before knew her to show so much interest in any one.”

“I don’t know why she does,” he answered awkwardly, and with some impatience, “unless it is owing to my having spoken to her the other day. When I went to engage my room, she was sitting in a corner alone, and I gave her a picture I happened to have in my pocket.” He stopped suddenly. He did not tell me then, nor did I find out until long afterward, that the little, lonely child had reminded him of a dead sister of his, and that when he gave her the picture, he gave her a kiss with it.

I made some trite remark about the softening and good influences a child can throw around one—I did not intend to hint at all that he was in need of such influences; but so suspicious was he in his dawning manhood, that he resented my remark, and relapsed into profound silence. A minute later, he left me, under the pretence of taking a short cut to the bank.

I did not see him again until evening. I entered the dining room on the first stroke of the dinner bell. Mrs. Drummond had just preceded me. I could not help smiling at her dismayed face. Daisy, with excited, nervous movements, was dragging her high-chair from the head of the table, to a place near Robertson’s.

“That young man has bewitched the child,” she said fretfully. “She slapped me just now, because I would not let her put on her best dress for him.”

While she was speaking Robertson entered the room. He was in better spirits than in the morning. When his eye fell on Daisy, sitting flushed with victory beside his plate, he smiled and pinched her cheek as he sat down. During the progress of the meal he showed a certain amount of attention to the scrap of humanity at his side; and she, with no eyes for the other people at the table, hung on his looks, and with a more practical interest in his welfare, watched every morsel of food that went into his mouth. Once she said impatiently to me, “You wed-haired man, you—don’t you see dat Woland wants some vegetables? Pass some quick.”

Dinner over, all scattered about the house. Daisy never retired earlier than any other person, so I watched her curiously to see what she would do. Robertson had gone to his room. With a disappointed air she seated herself on the lowest step of the staircase. Some young men standing about the hall tried to tease her. “Baby dear,” said one of them mischievously, “I’m afraid you’re going to be a flirt.”

“What’s dat?” she said, holding out inviting arms to the yellow cat that was sneaking about my boots.

“A flirt is an animal with eyes all over its head, and an enormous mouth, and it goes about the world eating men,” explained another.

Poor Daisy—she was yet at the stage of believing everything she heard. She shrugged her white shoulders, as she said, “Drefful!” and hugged her dingy cat a little closer. Presently they all laughed. She had thrown the cat to the floor, and sprung to her feet. Robertson was coming downstairs, very carefully dressed, a light overcoat thrown over his arm. Evidently, it was his intention to spend the evening with some of his friends.

Daisy inquired wistfully whether he was going out, and on his replying in the affirmative, she asked whether it was “work” that was taking him—that term signifying to her something that could not be neglected.

“No, Daisy,” he said, trying to escape her detaining hands, “I am going to see a play.”