"P.S.—If by any chance that most charming young man, Mr. Maurice Trevor, should be coming to Dawlish, I shall always be pleased to give him a welcome. You might mention to him where Florence is staying in London. He seemed to have taken quite a fancy to her, but mum's the word, my dear. Mothers will have dreams, you know."
CHAPTER XIII.
A WEARY WAIT.
Florence settled down in her attic, and made herself as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
With all her faults, and she had plenty, Florence had a straightforward sort of nature. She was alive to temptation, and when occasion rose, as has been already seen, could and did yield to it. But just now she was most anxious to eat the bread of independence, not to sink under the sway of Bertha Keys, to fight her own battle, and to receive her own well-earned reward.
She made her little attic look as neat and cheery as she could; she was extremely saving with regard to her food, and set to work at once trying to obtain employment.
Now, Florence honestly hated the idea of teaching. She was a fairly clever girl, but no more. She had certain aptitudes and certain talents, but they did not lie in the teacher's direction. For instance, she was no musician, and her knowledge of foreign languages was extremely small; she could read French fairly well, but could not speak it; she had only a smattering of German, and was not an artist. Her special forte was English history and literature, and she also had a fair idea of some of the sciences.