Florence, though sorry for this tête-à-tête that has been forced upon her, sits down calmly enough, and, taking up a book, prepares to read aloud to Sir Adrian.
But he stops her. Putting out his hand, he quietly but firmly closes the book, and then says:
"Not to-day, Florence; I want to speak to you instead."
"Anything you wish," responds Florence steadily, though her heart is beating somewhat hastily.
"Are you sorry that—that my unhappy cousin proved so unworthy?" he asks at last, touching upon this subject with a good deal of nervousness. He can not forget that once she had loved this miserable man.
"One must naturally feel sorry that anything human could be guilty of such an awful intention," she returns gently, but with the utmost unconcern.
Sir Adrian stares. Was he mistaken then? Did she never really care for the fellow, or is this some of what Mrs. Talbot had designated as Florence's "slyness"? No, once for all he would not believe that the pure, sweet, true face looking so steadily into his could be guilty of anything underhand or base.
"It was false that you loved him then?" he questions, following out the train of his own thoughts rather than the meaning of her last words.
"That I loved Mr. Dynecourt!" she repeats in amazement, her color rising. "What an extraordinary idea to come into your head! No; if anything, I confess I felt for your cousin nothing but contempt and dislike."
"Then, Florence, what has come between us?" he exclaims, seizing her hand. "You must have known that I loved you many weeks ago. Nay, long before last season came to a close; and then I believe—forgive my presumption—that you too loved me."