happy times he had ever known overwhelmed him. Memories of a starlit sea—the red and white awnings of a yacht—the wind whispering through the trees on a hillside—an orchestra playing in the distance—memories of old, and happy, far-off things—of times when he was even younger, even more in love with life. Why should this be? He wondered.
And the girl, looking at him, wondered, too—was he suddenly bereft of his tongue?
"I haven't asked you the conventional question?" she said at last. "How do you like Florida?"
"It's wonderful, isn't it?" Minot replied, coming to with a start. "I can speak of it even more enthusiastically than any of the railroad folders do. And yet, it's only recent—my discovery of its charms."
"Really?"
"Yes. When I was surveying it on that stop-watch of a train, my impression of it was quite unfavorable. It seemed so monotonous. I told myself nothing exciting could ever happen here."
"And—something has happened?"
