VIII
LYDIA
One evening in the latter part of September, Floyd returning from his work found a letter awaiting him on the table in Mrs. Bell's hall. It was a small blue envelope, with his name and address written across it in an ardent, uneven hand; and because he guessed at once from whom it came he picked it up gingerly in his dirty fingers and laid it unopened on the table in his room. Then he hurried down to his bath, where he was more brief than usual with his splashing and whistling; after which, with clean hands that would not deface the little note, he opened it and smiled at the first words. "Dear Floyd," it began, and he knew from his pleasure that he had feared Lydia would address him more formally,—"I am back in Avalon and I want to see you very much. Papa says you will hardly be able to come over for an (evening; but can't you come to luncheon with us next Sunday at one and stay for tea? Do say you will."
Floyd posted his answer before he sat down to Mrs. Bell's supper that evening. His flow of spirits during the meal delighted the landlady, and afterwards, when he insisted on Letty's teaching him to sing, Mrs. Bell sat in the parlor and grew hysterical over his efforts. "Oh, you think it's a bad job, my trying to sing," Floyd cried to them when they were quite speechless with laughter. And he started out boldly upon "Fair Harvard," and in the middle of the second line, Letty broke in upon him,—"Oh, Mr. Halket, that can't be right; you're away off," while her mother rocked and rocked, red in the face, unable longer to laugh audibly. "Look at mother; you'll be the death of her," said Letty; and Floyd pretended to
