He had to rouse himself from the dream with an effort and look over the accumulation. For perhaps the first time business seemed irksome to him, and he had always been fond of it, too fond perhaps. Men nearly always went home to a noon dinner. He found Mrs. Jarvis and Daffodil in a comfortable state of friendliness, but the girl's eyes lighted with pleasure at the sight of him and her voice was full of gay gladness. No, she was not homesick; she had been in the garden and there were so many flowers she had never seen before and the ripe luscious fruit. There had been so many things to look at that she had not finished her letter, but she would do that this afternoon. She is a gleam of the most enchanting sunshine in the old house, and her voice soft and merry, the tiredness and discomfort of travelling gone out of it is sweetest music to him and warms his heart. The eyes are very blue to-day, not so much brilliant as gladsome and her rosy lips curve and smile and dimple and every change seems more fascinating than the previous one. There is no young man in the room, it is the outcome of her own delightful golden heart. Oh, any young man might fall in love on the spot. "Miss Wharton will be in to supper," M. de Ronville remarked casually. "She is not a young girl," seeing the look of interest in Daffodil's face; "but you will find her a very agreeable companion." "It's queer, but I don't know many young girls. Some of the older ones were married in the spring, and I have been so much with mother and grandmere and Norah that I'm a little girl, a big little girl, I've grown so much." Her laugh was a gay ripple of sound. He took it with him to the office and her golden head seemed dancing about everywhere, just as it had at home. "Of course," Miss Wharton said to herself as she lifted the brass knocker, "de Ronville never could be so foolish as to fall in love with a chit of a thing, though I have heard of men training a young girl just to their fancy. He has always been so discreet and punctilious. French _are_ a little different." No, he had not overpraised her beauty. Betty Wharton admitted that at once. And her manners had a natural grace, it ran in the French blood. Why it would be a pleasure to take her about and have men stare at her as they would be sure to do. She and Mrs. Jarvis found enough to talk about, and while the housekeeper had gone to look after the tea she turned her attention to Daffodil.