“Aunt Julia?  She’s out of town,” said Florence.  “She’s visiting different people she used to know when she was away at school.”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Dill returned.  “But she’s been gone six weeks.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it’s that long,” Florence said casually; then with more earnestness:  “Mr. Dill, I was goin’ to ask you somep’n—­it’s kind of a funny question for me to ask, but——­”

“Yes, she has,” Noble interrupted, not aware that his remark was an interruption.  “Oh, yes, she has!” he said.  “It was six weeks day-before-yesterday afternoon.  I saw your father downtown this morning, and he said he didn’t know that any of the family had heard just when she was coming home.  I thought maybe some of your relatives had a letter from her by this afternoon’s mail, perhaps.”

“I guess not,” said Florence.  “Mr. Dill, there was a question I thought I’d ask you.  It’s kind of a funny question for me——­”

“Are you sure nobody’s heard from your Aunt Julia to-day?” Noble insisted.

“I guess they haven’t.  Mr. Dill, I was goin’ to ask you——­”

“It’s strange,” he murmured, “I don’t see how people can enjoy visits that long.  I should think they’d get anxious about what might happen at home.”

“Oh, grandpa’s all right; he says he kind of likes to have the house nice and quiet to himself; and anyway Aunt Julia enjoys visiting,” Florence assured him.  “Aunt Fanny saw a newspaper from one the places where Aunt Julia’s visiting her school room-mate.  It had her picture in it and called her ‘the famous Northern Beauty’; it was down South somewhere.  Well, Mr. Dill, I was just sayin’ I believe I’d ask you——­”

But a sectional rancour seemed all at once to affect the young man.  “Oh, yes.  I heard about that,” he said.  “Your Aunt Fanny lent my mother the newspaper.  Those people in that part of the country—­well——­” He paused, remembering that it was only Florence he addressed; and he withheld from utterance his opinion that the Civil War ought to be fought all over again.  “Your father said your grandfather hadn’t heard from her for several days, and even then she hadn’t said when she was coming home.”

“No, I expect she didn’t,” said Florence.  “Mr. Dill, I was goin’ to ask you somep’n—­it’s kind of a queer kind of question for me to ask, I guess——­” She paused.  However, he did not interrupt her, seeming preoccupied with gloom; whereupon Florence permitted herself a deprecatory laugh, and continued, “It might be you’d answer yes, or it might be you’d answer no; but anyway I was goin’ to ask you—­it’s kind of a funny question for me to ask, I expect—­but do you like poetry?”

“What?”

“Well, as things have turned out lately I guess it’s kind of a funny question, Mr. Dill, but do you like poetry?”

Noble’s expression took on a coldness; for the word brought to his mind a thought of Newland Sanders.  “Do I like poetry?” said Noble.  “No, I don’t.”