“May I inquire what you propose doing?”
Florence put her hands to her brow.
“I scarcely know. I suppose I must return to London; but it is of little consequence—I have no one to exert myself for now.”
Mr. Lumley waited till the sobs that burst forth as she said this had been checked; then he said gently:
“Will you promise to come to no decision respecting your movements until I have seen you again? I fancy I know of something that will suit you. Will you wait until I can tell you more?”
Grateful for his kindness, Florence gave the required promise. A new phase in her checkered life was about to commence. Who can wonder if she gladly clung to the only friendly hand held forth to guide her in it, or that her mother’s diary was again brought forth and the page that held out the long-deferred hope of Frank Dormer’s return blistered with her tears?
CHAPTER X.
MRS. WILSON.
Mr. Lumley called on the following day, accompanied by a very small, slight lady, in the deep mourning of a widow. She was evidently of a nervous temperament, and the excitement of driving herself and the clergyman in a little pony carriage had flushed and agitated her so much that it took her a few minutes to recover breath and composure before she could go through the ceremony of introduction. Then she discovered that a small black bag, which contained her cardcase and handkerchief, was missing, and Mr. Lumley good-naturedly offered to relieve her distress by going and searching for it in the carriage.
When he had gone, Florence, who, in compassion to the lady’s tremors, had kept aloof from the armchair in which she sat sniffing hard at a vinaigrette, ventured to quietly approach.