“Florence Heriton here, in my house?”
So strangely were these words spoken that the nervous little housekeeper began to get into a state of great perturbation.
“I hope I have not been too hasty in my arrangements, sir. But Mr. Lumley advised, and seemed to think—and I am so unaccustomed to such responsibility—that——”
But Mr. Aylwinne had by this time quite recovered himself, and interrupted her by saying, in his usually firm, decided accents:
“You have done quite right, my good friend. There is a fate in these things which overrules our wisest intentions. Come, you must introduce me to—the governess of my wards.”
Florence, embarrassed by what she had overheard, knew not whether to advance or retain her position when Mr. Aylwinne followed Mrs. Wilson into the room. She had withdrawn to the most distant window, and as she turned at their entrance the deep-crimson draperies behind her threw out her slight figure and delicate profile in vivid relief.
With just the nice degree of empressement the occasion warranted, Mr. Aylwinne held out his hand, and hoped that Miss Heriton would be comfortable at Orwell Court with his worthy friend Mrs. Wilson.
There was not a fault to be found with his words or manner. It was just what a generous employer’s should be to the lady whose services he accepted. But the hand that touched Florence’s was cold and trembling, and her timid glance at his dark face showed her that he never looked up while addressing her.
Mrs. Wilson would have bustled away to order some refreshments; but, putting her into her chair, he rang the bell himself for a cup of coffee and a biscuit; he wanted nothing more, he said.
And then, leaning his elbow on the end of the mantel-piece, he glided into general remarks about the weather, and one or two of the topics of the day, with an easy politeness before which the remaining traces of Florence’s embarrassment disappeared.