“Well, Florence,” he said; “what is it?”
“You say I am not rich, Colonel Arbuthnot,” was Florence’s answer; “but I am just about as rich as any girl can be.”
She blushed, and her beautiful eyes grew bright—bright with that sort of look which made it impossible to tell what their colour was, only there seemed to be a great deal of gold about them—a sort of golden brown. Then she dropped her long, black lashes, and her face, which had been so rosy, grew pale. She lifted her eyes again, and fixed them on the Colonel’s face.
“He is coming to-day,” she said; “that is why I am happy. He may be here at any hour—at any minute. I am most awfully happy. A week ago I was astonished when he said what he did say; but now I am just happy. I am very rich, Colonel, because he loves me so much.”
“Who in the world is the girl talking about?” said the Colonel, for he at least knew nothing about Florence’s attachment.
Florence looked at him half shyly.
“Can’t you guess?” she said. “Didn’t you see us together on Christmas Day?” But the Colonel still looked puzzled. A good many people had dined in their hospitable house on Christmas Day, and he had not particularly noticed either Brenda or Florence at that time.
“You must explain a little more, dear,” he said very gently.
“Well,” said Florence, “I will tell you, for you will know all about it very, very soon. It is Michael—Michael Reid.”
“What?” said the Colonel.