“I beg your pardon, ladies. I had forgotten to say that my wards will be here early to-morrow. They were so fatigued with their voyage that I left them with a motherly landlady at a hotel in Kirton, and promised to fetch them in the morning. Good night!”
“I am afraid he is very tired himself by his going away so abruptly,” said Mrs. Wilson uneasily. “I never saw him look so before. Did you see how white he had turned, Miss Heriton?”
“I was not noticing Mr. Aylwinne’s looks,” Florence answered quietly. “Perhaps it was only his manner.”
“Oh, no; he was always so courteous to every one!” Mrs. Wilson declared. She wondered whether she might venture to send something nice and hot to his dressing room—just a tray with a morsel of fricasseed chicken and some mulled wine.
“How long have you known Mr. Aylwinne?” asked Florence, so abruptly that Mrs. Wilson regarded her with open eyes.
“How long? Ever since he first came to England to take possession of his property. That was before he went to Egypt. He has been the best and truest friend I ever had in my life, Miss Heriton. I cannot think of his goodness without reproaching myself for not doing more to testify my gratitude. I’ll go and send up that tray, I think, if you’ll excuse my running away.”
“Tell me before you go,” said Florence, detaining her, “tell me where Mr. Aylwinne had been residing before he came to England.”
“In India, my dear, of course. I thought you knew that he was there for some years. What wine would you advise me to mull? Port? Or do you think that would be too heavy?”
Putting her off with an evasive answer, Florence escaped to her own chamber.
She was pale, and trembling with irrepressible agitation. At one moment she reproached herself for giving way to ridiculous fancies, and told herself it was absurd to imagine that beneath the bronzed and bearded skin of the wealthy owner of Orwell Court she recognized the smooth-faced Frank Dormer, with whom she parted so many long years ago; yet, reason as she would, the fancy returned. Every strange speech he had made this night was pondered over, only to increase her perplexity, for in the softened tones that had replied to Mrs. Wilson she seemed to detect the echo of that voice last heard in the happy home of her childhood.