“You are late,” says Arthur Dynecourt in a low tone. There is no anger in it; there is indeed only a desire to show how tedious have been the moments spent apart from her.

“Have you brought your book, or do you mean to go through your part without it?” Florence asks, disdaining to notice his words, or to betray interest in anything except the business that has brought them together.

“I know my part by heart,” he responds, in a strange voice.

“Then begin,” she commands somewhat imperiously; the very insolence of her air only gives an additional touch to her extreme beauty and fires his ardor.

“You desire me to begin?” he asks unsteadily.

“If you wish it.”

“Do you wish it?”

“I desire nothing more intensely than to get this rehearsal over,” she replies impatiently.

“You take no pains indeed to hide your scorn of me,” says Dynecourt bitterly.

“I regret it, if I have at any time treated you with incivility,” returns Florence, with averted eyes and with increasing coldness. “Yet I must always think that, for whatever has happened, you have only yourself to blame.”

“Is it a crime to love you?” he demands boldly.

“Sir,” she exclaims indignantly, and raising her beautiful eyes to his for a moment, “I must request you will never speak to me of love. There is neither sympathy nor common friendliness between us. You are well aware with what sentiments I regard you.”

“But, why am I alone to be treated with contempt?” he asks, with sudden passion. “All other men of your acquaintance are graciously received by you, are met with smiles and kindly words. Upon me alone your eyes rest, when they deign to glance in my direction, with marked disfavor. All the world can see it. I am signaled out from the others as one to be slighted and spurned.”

“Your forget yourself,” says Florence contemptuously. “I have met you here to-day to rehearse our parts for next Tuesday evening, not to listen to any insolent words you may wish to address to me. Let us begin” opening her book. “If you know your part, go on.”

“I know my part only too well; it is to worship you madly, hopelessly. Your very cruelty only serves to heighten my passion. Florence, hear me!”

“I will not,” she says, her eyes flashing. She waves him back from her as he endeavors to take her hand. “Is it not enough that I have been persecuted by your attentions attentions most hateful to me for the past year, but you must now obtrude them upon me here? You compel me to tell you in plain words what my manner must have shown you only too clearly that you are distasteful to me in every way, that your very presence troubles me, that your touch is abhorrent to me!”

“Ah,” he says, stepping back as she hurls these words at him, and regarding her with a face distorted by passion, “if I were the master here, instead of the poor cousin if I were Sir Adrian your treatment of me would be very different!”

At the mention of Sir Adrian’s name the color dies out of her face and she grows deadly pale. Her lips quiver, but her eyes do not droop.

“I do not understand you,” she says proudly.

“Then you shall,” responds Dynecourt. “Do you think I am blind, that I can not see how you have given your proud heart to my cousin, that he has conquered where other men have failed; that, even before he has declared any love for you, you have, in spite of your pride, given all your affection to him?”

“You insult me,” cries Florence, with quivering lips. She looks faint, and is trembling visibly. If this man has read her heart aright, may not all the guests have read it too? May not even Adrian himself have discovered her secret passion, and perhaps despised her for it, as being unwomanly?

“And more,” goes on Dynecourt, exulting in the torture he can see he is inflicting; “though you thrust from you an honorable love for one that lives only in your imagination, I will tell you that Sir Adrian has other views, other intentions. I have reason to know that, when he marries, the name of his bride will not be Florence Delmaine.”

“Leave me, sir,” cries Florence, rousing herself from her momentary weakness, and speaking with all her old fire, “and never presume to address me again. Go!”

She points with extended hand to the door at the lower end of the gallery. So standing, with her eyes strangely bright, and her perfect figure drawn up to its fullest height, she looks superb in her disdainful beauty.

Dynecourt, losing his self-possession as he gazes upon her, suddenly flings himself at her feet and catches her dress in his hands to detain her.

“Have pity on me,” he cries imploringly; “it is my unhappy love for you that has driven me to speak thus! Why is Adrian to have all, and I nothing? He has title, lands, position above and beyond everything, the priceless treasure of your love, whilst I am bankrupt in all. Show me some mercy some kindness!”

They are both so agitated that they fail to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Release me, sir,” cries Florence imperiously.

“Nay; first answer me one question,” entreats Dynecourt. “Do you love my cousin?”

“I care nothing for Sir Adrian!” replies Florence distinctly, and in a somewhat raised tone, her self-pride being touched to the quick.

Two figures who have entered the gallery by the second door at the upper end of it, hearing these words uttered in an emphatic tone, start and glance at the tableau presented to their view lower down. They hesitate, and, even as they do so, they can see Arthur Dynecourt seize Florence Delmaine’s hand, and, apparently unrebuked, kiss it passionately.

“Then I shall hope still,” he says in a low but impressive voice, at which the two who have just entered turn and beat a precipitate retreat, fearing that they may be seen. One is Sir Adrian, the other Mrs. Talbot.

“Dear me,” stammers Dora, in pretty confusion, “who would have thought it? I was never so amazed in my life.”

Sir Adrian, who has turned very pale, and is looking greatly distressed, makes no reply. He is repeating over and over again to himself the words he has just heard, as though unable or unwilling to comprehend them. “I care nothing for Sir Adrian!” They strike like a knell upon his ears a death-knell to all his dearest hopes. And that fellow on his knees before her, kissing her hand, and telling her he will still hope! Hope for what? Alas, he tells himself, he knows only too well her love!

“I am so glad they have made it up,” Dora goes on, looking up sympathetically at Sir Adrian.

“Made it up? I had no idea they were more than ordinary and very new acquaintances.”

“It is quite a year since we first met Arthur in Switzerland,” responds Dora demurely, calling Dynecourt by his Christian name, a thing she has never done before, because she knows it will give Sir Adrian the impression that they are on very intimate terms with his cousin. “He has been our shadow ever since. I wonder you did not notice his devotion in town.”

“I noticed nothing,” says Sir Adrian, miserably; “or, if I did, it was only to form wrong impressions. I firmly believed, seeing Miss Delmaine and Arthur together here, that she betrayed nothing but a rooted dislike to him.”

“They had not been good friends of late,” explains Dora hastily; “that we all could see. And Florence is very peculiar, you know; she is quite the dearest girl in the world, and I adore her; but I will confess to you” with another upward and bewitching glance from the charming blue eyes “that she has her little tempers. Not very naughty ones, you know” shaking her head archly “but just enough to make one a bit afraid of her at times; so I never ventured to ask her why she treated poor Arthur, who really is her slave, so cruelly.”

“And you think now that ” Sir Adrian breaks off without finishing the sentence.

“That she has forgiven him whatever offense he committed? Yes, after what we have just seen quite a sentimental little episode, was it not? I can not help cherishing the hope that all is again right between them. It could not have been a very grave quarrel, as Arthur is incapable of a rudeness; but then dearest Florence is so capricious!”

“Ill-tempered and capricious!” Can the girl he loves so ardently be guilty of these faults? It seems incredible to Sir Adrian, as he remembers her sunny smile and gentle manner. But then, is it not her dearest friend who is speaking of her tender-hearted little Dora Talbot, who seems to think well of every one, and who murmurs such pretty speeches even about Arthur, who, if the truth be told, is not exactly “dear” in the sight of Sir Adrian.

“You think there is, or was, an engagement between Arthur and Miss Delmaine?” he begins, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“I think nothing, you silly man,” says the widow playfully, “until I am told it. But I am glad Florence is once more friendly with poor Arthur; he is positively wrapped up in her. Now, has that interesting tableau we so nearly interrupted given you a distaste for all other pictures? Shall we try the smaller gallery?”

“Just as you will.”

“Of course” with a girlish laugh “it would be imprudent to venture again into the one we have just quitted. By this time, doubtless, they are quite reconciled and

“Yes yes,” interrupts Sir Adrian hastily, trying in vain to blot out the picture she has raised before his eyes of Florence in her lover’s arms. “What you have just told me has quite taken me by surprise,” he goes on nervously. “I should never have guessed it from Miss Delmaine’s manner; it quite misled me.”

“Well, between you and me,” says Dora, raising herself on tiptoe, as though to whisper in his ear, and so coming very close to him, “I am afraid my dearest Florence is a little sly! Yes, really; you wouldn’t think it, would you? The dear girl has such a sweet ingenuous face quite the loveliest face on earth, I think, though some pronounce it too cold. But she is very self-contained; and to-day, you see, she has given you an insight into this slight fault in her character. Now, has she not appeared to you to avoid Arthur almost pointedly?”

“She has indeed,” agrees Sir Adrian, with a smothered groan.

“Well” triumphantly “and yet, here we find her granting him a private audience, when she believed we were all safely out of the way; and in the north gallery too, which, as a rule, is deserted.”

“She didn’t know we were thinking of driving to the hills,” says Sir Adrian, making a feeble effort to find a flaw in his companion’s statement.

“Oh, yes, she did!” declares the widow lightly. “I told her myself, about two hours ago, that I intended asking you to make a party to go there, as I dote on lovely scenery; and I dare say” coquettishly “she knew I mean thought you would not refuse so small a request of mine. But for poor Lady FitzAlmont’s headache we should be there now.”

“It is true,” admits Sir Adrian, feeling that the last straw has descended.

“And now that I think of it,” the widow goes on, even more vivaciously, “the reason she assigned for not coming with us must have been a feigned one. Ah, slyboots that she is!” laughs Mrs. Talbot merrily. “Of course, she wanted the course clear to have an explanation with Arthur. Well, after all, that was only natural. But she might have trusted me, whom she knows to be her true friend.”

Ill-tempered capricious sly! And all these faults are attributed to Florence by “her true friend!” A quotation assigned to Marechal Villars when taking leave of Louis XIV. occurs to him “Defend me from my friends.” The words return to him persistently; but then he looks down on Dora Talbot, and stares straight into her liquid blue eyes, so apparently guileless and pure, and tells himself that he wrongs her. Yes, it is a pity Florence had not put greater faith in this kind little woman, a pity for all of them, as then many heart-breaks might have been prevented.