"You have been so good, so more than good to me," she said. "If you had known you would have despised me."
"If I had known I should have gone straight to Miss Keys and put a stop to this disgraceful thing," was the young man's answer. "I suppose, Florence," he added, after a pause, "you, if you have time to think of me at all, pity me now because I am a penniless man."
"Oh, no, no," she replied; "it is not good for people to be too rich. I have quite come to be of that opinion."
"Thank God, then, we are both of one way of thinking because God, though He has not given you this special talent, has given you much."
"Much," she repeated, vaguely.
"Yes," he repeated, speaking earnestly: "He has given you attractiveness, great earnestness of purpose, and oh! a thousand other things. He has at least done this for you, Florence: He has made you so that in all the wide world you are the only woman for me. I can love no one but you, Florence—no one else—no one else, even though you did fall."
"You cannot: it is impossible," answered Florence. "You cannot love me now."
"I have loved you all through, and this thing does not alter my love. You see, Florence," he added, "it was not the girl who was famous that I cared for. I never did care a bit about the wonderful writing which was supposed to be yours. Far from liking it, I hated it. I never wanted a wife who would be either famous or clever."
"And Tom Franks," continued Florence, "only wants me because he thinks me clever. But he will not wish to marry me now."
"I only wanted you for yourself. Will you wait for me and let me try to make a home for you, and when I have done that, will you come to me? I am going away to Australia; I have heard of a good post there, and I am going out almost at once, and if things succeed, you and the mother can come to me, and in the meantime will you stay with her and comfort her?"