Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered into the room. The extreme delicacy of her appearance was increased by her deep mourning; and seated in a cushioned chair, from which she seemed to rise with an effort, she certainly presented little of the character of a fortunate and prosperous heiress.
‘You are very good to come to me,’ she said, faintly smiling.
Coningsby extended his hand to her affectionately, in which she placed her own, looking down much embarrassed.
‘You have an agreeable situation here,’ said Coningsby, trying to break the first awkwardness of their meeting.
‘Yes; but I hope not to stop here long?’
‘You are going abroad?’
‘No; I hope never to leave England!’
There was a slight pause; and then Flora sighed and said,
‘I wish to speak to you on a subject that gives me pain; yet of which I must speak. You think I have injured you?’
‘I am sure,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of great kindness, ‘that you could injure no one.’