“The promises made by our guest, Mr. Dormer, are not supposed to be binding on Mr. Aylwinne,” answered Florence haughtily. “Since when has he thought proper to remember them?”
“Always. Never has a word spoken in that last interview with Mrs. Heriton left my memory, although the hopes she permitted me to cherish you have destroyed.”
Astonished and confounded, Florence looked at him inquiringly. What did he—what could he mean? He did not seem in any haste to explain himself, and with increasing stateliness she said:
“Pardon me, sir, if I remind you that such retrospection is as painful as unpleasant. And rest assured I should never have provoked it by coming to Orwell Court had I known whom I should recognize in its owner.”
Bowing slightly, she moved toward the door; but ere she reached it Mr. Aylwinne, in great agitation, placed himself before her.
“Miss Heriton, what am I to understand by this? Is it—can it be possible that you did not know me?”
There was such intense earnestness in his manner that Florence faltered something about the lapse of time and the change in his appearance, and yet more in his name.
“Yes, yes—I am aware of all this. But Mr. Heriton knew that I had assumed my uncle’s name. I wrote to him both before and after leaving India.”
“I did not see those letters,” said Florence, with some reluctance.
“You did not?” he cried excitedly. “But they contained others for you. Surely—surely Mr. Heriton did not withhold those!”