There was a moment of hesitation, during which a malevolent pleasure slightly disfigured the countenances of the two gentlemen with Julia; but when Florence pointed to a house across the street and remarked, “There’s Great-Uncle Milford and Aunt C’nelia; they been lookin’ out of their second guestroom window about half an hour,” Julia uttered an exclamation.

“Murder!” she said, and moved with decision toward the gate.  “Let’s go!”

Thus the little procession started, Mr. Sanders and the sprightly widower at Beauty’s side, with Florence and Mr. Dill so close behind that, before they had gone a block, Newland found it necessary to warn this rear rank that the heels of his new shoes were not part of the pavement.  After that the rear rank, a little abashed, consented to fall back some paces.  Julia’s heightened colour, meanwhile, was little abated by some slight episodes attending the progress of the walking-party.  Her Aunt Fanny Patterson, rocking upon a veranda, rose and evidently called to someone within the house, whereupon she was joined by her invalid sister, Aunt Harriet, with a trained nurse and two elderly domestics, a solemnly whispering audience.  And in the front yard of “the Henry Atwater house,” at the next corner, Herbert underwent a genuine bedazzlement, but he affected more.  His violent gaze dwelt upon Florence, and he permitted his legs slowly to crumple under him, until, just as the party came nearest him, he lay prostrate upon his back in a swoon.  Afterward he rose and for a time followed in a burlesque manner; then decided to return home.

“Old heathen!” said Florence, glancing back over her shoulder as he disappeared from view.

Mr. Dill was startled from a reverie inspired by the back of Julia’s head. “’Heathen’?” he said, in plaintive inquiry.

“I meant Herbert,” Florence informed him.  “Cousin Herbert Atwater.  He was following us, walking Dutch.”

“’Cousin Herbert Atwater’?” said Noble dreamily. “’Dutch’?”

“He won’t any more,” said Florence.  “He always hass to show off, now his voice is changing.”  She spoke, and she also walked, with dignity—­a rather dashing kind of dignity, which was what Herbert’s eccentricity of gait intended to point out injuriously.  In fact, never before had Florence been so impressed with herself; never before, indeed, had she been a member of a grown-up non-family party; never before had she gone walking with an actual adult young man for her escort; and she felt that she owed it to her position to appear in as brilliant an aspect as possible.  She managed to give herself a rhythmical, switching motion, causing her kneelength skirt to swing from side to side—­a pomp that brought her a great deal of satisfaction as she now and then caught the effect by twisting her neck enough to see down behind, over her shoulder.

But her poise was temporarily threatened when the walking-party passed her own house.  Her mother happened to be sitting near an open window upstairs, and, after gazing forth with warm interest at Julia and her two outwalkers, Mrs. Atwater’s astonished eyes fell upon Florence taking care of the overflow.  Florence bowed graciously.