"Perhaps, I cannot exactly tell. Mr. Leicester is so unlike other men, it is difficult to decide what his wishes really are," said Robert. "He certainly did take great interest in your progress at first!"
"And now that interest has ceased! Is that what you mean to say, Robert?" questioned the young girl, and even the scarlet reflection of her shawl failed to relieve the deadly paleness of her countenance.
"No, I did not say that!" answered Robert, gently, "he questions me of your progress often."
Florence drew a deep breath, and now there was something more than a scarlet reflection on her cheek.
"But then," continued Robert, "he contents himself with questions; he does not come to witness the progress you are making."
"You have noticed it, then?—you have thought it strange?" said Florence, while the red upon her cheek began to burn painfully, and tears rushed to her eyes. "Yet you do not know—you cannot even guess how hard this is to bear!"
"Perhaps I can guess," answered Robert, casting down his eyes and trembling visibly.
Florence started from her chair, and stood upright. In the violence of her agitation, she lost the languid, willowy stoop of frame that had become habitual. For a moment the full energies of her nature were lighted up, stung into sharp vitality by surprise and terror. But she did not speak, she only stood upright a single moment, and then sunk to the couch helplessly and sobbing like a child. Robert knelt by her greatly agitated, for he had anticipated no such violent effect from his words.
"Do not weep, Miss Craft, I did not intend to pain you thus. What have I said?—what have I done that it should bring so much grief?"