While Maltravers thus communed with himself, Lady Florence passed into her father’s dressing-room, and there awaited his return from London. She knew his worldly views—she knew also the pride of her affianced, and, she felt that she alone could mediate between the two.
Lord Saxingham at last returned—busy, bustling, important, and good-humoured as usual. “Well, Flory, well?—glad to see you—quite blooming, I declare,—never saw you with such a colour—monstrous like me, certainly. We always had fine complexions and fine eyes in our family. But I’m rather late—first bell rung—we ci-devant jeunes hommes are rather long dressing, and you are not dressed yet, I see.”
“My dearest father, I wished to speak with you on a matter of much importance.”
“Do you?—what, immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Well—what is it?—your Slingsby property, I suppose.”
“No, my dear father—pray sit down and hear me patiently.”
Lord Saxingham began to be both alarmed and curious—he seated himself in silence, and looked anxiously in the face of his daughter.
“You have always been very indulgent to me,” commenced Florence, with a half smile, “and I have had my own way more than most young ladies. Believe me, my dear father. I am most grateful not only for your affection but your esteem. I have been a strange wild girl, but I am now about to reform; and as the first step, I ask your consent to give myself a preceptor and a guide—”
“A what!” cried Lord Saxingham.