“Yes. She is also sprung from an ancient family.”
Florence smiled, and looked at Mr. Plowden with an air that said more plainly than any words, “Which you clearly are not.”
“In short, I am anxious to get married, and I admire your sister Eva more than anybody I ever saw.”
“All of which are very satisfactory reasons, Mr. Plowden; all you have to do is to convince my sister of the many advantages you have to offer her, and—to win her affections.”
“Ah, Miss Ceswick, that is just the point. She told me that her affections were already irredeemably engaged, and that she had none to give. If only I have the opportunity, however, I shall hope to be able to distance my rival.”
Florence looked at him scrutinisingly as she answered:
“You do not know Ernest Kershaw, or you would not be so confident.”
“Why am I not as good as this Ernest?” he asked; for Florence’s remark, identical as it was with that of Jeremy, wounded his vanity intensely.
“Well, Mr. Plowden, I do not want to be rude, but it is impossible for me to conceive a woman’s affections being won away from Ernest Kershaw by you. You are so very different.”
If Mr. Plowden wanted a straightforward answer, he had certainly got it. For some moments he sat in sulky silence, and then he said: