"When I go home to-night I will tell mother that I have met you, and she will write to you. Will you spend Sunday with us?"
"Shall you be at home?"
"Yes; I am not going back to Aylmer's Court until Tuesday. I will ask mother to invite you. I could meet you and bring you to Hampstead. We have a cottage in a terrace close to the heath; you will enjoy the air on Hampstead Heath. It is nearly as good as being in the country."
"I am sure it must be lovely. I am glad I met you," said poor Florence.
"You look better now," he answered, "but please give me your address over again."
As Trevor spoke, he took a small, gold-mounted note-book from his pocket, and when Florence gave him the address he entered it in a neat hand.
"Thank you," he said, putting the note-book back into his waistcoat pocket. "You will be sure to receive your invitation. You look more rested now, but you still have quite a fagged look."
"How can you tell? How do you know?"
"I have often watched that sort of look on people's faces. I take a great interest in—oh! so many things, that I could talk to you about if we had time. I am very sorry for Londoners. I should not care to live in London all my life."
"Nor should I; but, all the same, I expect I shall have to. Perhaps I ought to tell you, Mr. Trevor, quite frankly that I am a very poor girl, and have to earn my own living—that is why I am staying in a place like Prince's Mansions. I have an attic in No. 12, a tiny room up in the roof, and I am looking out for employment."