A certain Miss Mitford, the head of this part of the establishment, wandered in, saw that Florence was quite alone, noticed how ill and wretched she looked, and sat down near her.
"Your name is, I think, Aylmer," said this good woman.
"Yes: Florence Aylmer," replied Florence, and she scarcely raised her eyes from her book.
"You don't look very well. I am going for a little drive: a friend of mine is lending me her carriage. I have plenty of room for you; will you come with me?"
"Do you mean it?" said Florence, raising languid eyes.
"I certainly do. My friend has a most comfortable carriage. We will drive to Richmond Park. What do you say?"
"That I thank you very much, and I—"
"Of course you'll come."
"Yes, I'll come," said Florence. She ran upstairs more briskly than she had done yet. The thought of the drive, and the peace of being alone with a woman who knew absolutely nothing about her, was soothing. Miss Mitford was not remarkable for her penetration of character, but she was essentially kind.
The carriage arrived and she and Florence got in. They drove for a quarter of a mile without either of them uttering a word; then the coachman drew up at a shabby house. Miss Mitford got out, ran up the steps, and rang the bell; in a moment or two three little girls with very pasty faces and lack-lustre eyes appeared.