Florence was returning slowly home by way of Trafalgar Square when she heard a voice in her ear.  She turned quickly, and was much astonished to see the bright face and keen blue eyes of Maurice Trevor.

“I thought it must be you,” exclaimed the young man.  “I am glad to see you.  You passed me in a hurry just now, and never noticed me, so I took the liberty of following you.  How do you do?  I didn’t know you were in town.”

“I have been in town for over a fortnight,” replied Florence.  She found herself colouring, then turning pale.

“Is anything the matter?  You don’t look well.”

“I am tired, that is all.”

“May I walk part of the way home with you?  It is nice to meet an old friend.”

“Just as you please,” replied Florence.

“Where do you live?”

“I am in a house in Westminster ­12, Prince’s Mansion, it is called.  It is a curious sort of place, and let out in rooms to girls like myself.  There is a restaurant downstairs.  It is a nice, convenient place, and it is not dear.  I think myself very lucky to have a room there.”

“I suppose you are,” assented Trevor, “but it sounds extraordinary.  Do you like living alone in London?”

“I have no choice,” replied Florence.

“I was sorry not to have seen you again before we left Dawlish.  We had a good deal in common, had we not?  That was a pleasant afternoon that we spent together looking at the sea-anémones.”

“Very pleasant,” she answered.

“And how is your mother, Miss Aylmer, and that nice young friend ­I forget her name.”

“Mother is quite well.  I heard from her a few days ago; and Kitty Sharston is abroad.”

“Kitty Sharston:  that is a pretty name.”

“And Kitty is so pretty herself,” continued Florence, forgetting her anxieties, and beginning to talk in a natural way.  “She is one of the nicest girls I have ever met.  Her father has just returned from India, and he and she are enjoying a holiday together.  But now, may I ask you some questions?  Why are you not with Mrs. Aylmer and Bertha Keys?”

“I have not been at Aylmer’s Court for some days.  My mother has not been quite well, and I have been paying her a visit.  But do tell me more about yourself.  Are you going to live altogether in London?”

“I hope so.”

“What a pity I didn’t know it before!  Mother would so like to know you, Miss Aylmer.  I have told her something about you.  Won’t you come and see her some day?  She would call on you, but she is quite an old lady, and perhaps you will not stand on ceremony.”

“Of course not.  I should be delighted to see your mother,” said Florence, brightening up wonderfully.  “I have been very lonely,” she added.

“When I go home to-night I will tell mother that I have met you, and she will write to you.  Will you spend Sunday with us?”

“Shall you be at home?”

“Yes; I am not going back to Aylmer’s Court until Tuesday.  I will ask mother to invite you.  I could meet you and bring you to Hampstead.  We have a cottage in a terrace close to the heath; you will enjoy the air on Hampstead Heath.  It is nearly as good as being in the country.”

“I am sure it must be lovely.  I am glad I met you,” said poor Florence.

“You look better now,” he answered, “but please give me your address over again.”

As Trevor spoke, he took a small, gold-mounted note-book from his pocket, and when Florence gave him the address he entered it in a neat hand.

“Thank you,” he said, putting the note-book back into his waistcoat pocket.  “You will be sure to receive your invitation.  You look more rested now, but you still have quite a fagged look.”

“How can you tell?  How do you know?”

“I have often watched that sort of look on people’s faces.  I take a great interest in ­oh! so many things, that I could talk to you about if we had time.  I am very sorry for Londoners.  I should not care to live in London all my life.”

“Nor should I; but, all the same, I expect I shall have to.  Perhaps I ought to tell you, Mr. Trevor, quite frankly that I am a very poor girl, and have to earn my own living ­that is why I am staying in a place like Prince’s Mansions.  I have an attic in N, a tiny room up in the roof, and I am looking out for employment.”

“What sort of employment?  What do you want to do?” asked Trevor.

“I suppose I shall have to teach, but I should like to be a secretary.”

“A secretary ­that is rather a wide remark.  What sort of secretary?”

“Oh, I don’t know; but anything is better than teaching.  It is just because a secretaryship sounds vague that I think I should like it.”

Trevor was thinking to himself.  After a moment he spoke.

“Do you mind my asking you a very blunt question?”

Florence gave him a puzzled glance.

“What sort of a question?  What do you mean?”

“Are you not Mrs. Aylmer’s niece?”

“Your Mrs. Aylmer’s niece?”

“Yes.”

“I am her niece by marriage.  Her husband was my father’s brother.”

“I understand; but how is it she never asks you to Aylmer’s Court nor takes any notice of you?”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot?  Does that mean that you will not?”

“I will not, then.”

Trevor flushed slightly.  They had now nearly reached Westminster.

“Here is a tea-shop,” he said; “will you come in and have tea with me?”

Florence hesitated.

“Thank you.  I may as well,” she said then slowly.

They entered a pretty shop with little round tables covered with white cloths.  That sort of shop was a novelty at that time.

Trevor and Florence secured a table to themselves.  Florence was very hungry, but she restrained her appetite, fearing that he would notice.  She longed to ask for another bun and a pat of butter.

“Oh, dear,” she was saying to herself, as she drank her tea and ate her thin bread-and-butter, “I could demolish half the things in the shop.  It is perfectly dreadful, and this tea must take the place of another meal.  I must take the benefit of his hospitality.”

A few moments later Trevor had bidden her good-bye.

“My mother will be sure to write to you,” he said.

She would not let him walk with her as far as her lodgings, but shook hands with him with some pleasure in her face.

“I am so glad I met you,” she repeated, and he echoed the sentiment.

As soon as he got home that day he went straight to his mother.

“You are better, are you not?” he said to her.

Mrs. Trevor was a middle-aged woman, who was more or less of an invalid.  She was devoted to her son Maurice, and, although she delighted in feeling that he was provided for for life owing to Mrs. Aylmer’s generosity, she missed him morning, noon, and night.

“Ah, darling, it is good to see you back again,” she said; “but you look hot and tired.  What a long time you have been in town!”

“I have had quite an adventure,” he said.  “Mother, I want to know if you will do something for me.”

“You have but to ask, Maurice.”

“There is a girl” ­he hesitated, and a very slight accession of colour came into his bronzed cheeks, “there is a girl I have taken rather a fancy to.  Oh, no, I am not the least bit in love with her, so don’t imagine it, little mother; but I pity her, and like her also exceedingly.  I met her down at Dawlish.  I want to know if you will be good to her.  I came across her to-day whilst walking in town, and she was looking, oh! so fagged out and tired!  I said you would write and invite her to come and see us here, and I promised that you would ask her to spend next Sunday with us.”

“Oh, my dear Maurice, your last Sunday with me, God only knows for how long!”

“But you don’t mind, do you, mother?”

She looked at him very earnestly.  She was a wise woman in her way.

“No, I don’t mind,” she said; “I will ask her, of course.”

“Then that is all right.  Her name is Miss Florence Aylmer, and this is her address.”

“Aylmer!  How strange!”

“It is all very strange, mother.  I cannot understand it, and it troubles me a good deal.  She is Florence Aylmer, and she is my Mrs. Aylmer’s niece by marriage.”

“Very queer,” said Mrs. Trevor; “I never thought Mrs. Aylmer had any relations.  What sort of girl did you say she was?”

“Not exactly handsome, but with a taking face and a good deal of pluck about her ­and oh, mother, I believe she is starvingly poor, and she has to earn her own living, I made her have a cup to tea and some bread-and-butter to-night, and she ate as if she were famished.  It’s awfully distressing.  I really don’t know what ought to be done.”