They entered a pretty shop with little round tables covered with white cloths. That sort of shop was a novelty at that time.
Trevor and Florence secured a table to themselves. Florence was very hungry, but she restrained her appetite, fearing that he would notice. She longed to ask for another bun and a pat of butter.
"Oh, dear," she was saying to herself, as she drank her tea and ate her thin bread-and-butter, "I could demolish half the things in the shop. It is perfectly dreadful, and this tea must take the place of another meal. I must take the benefit of his hospitality."
A few moments later Trevor had bidden her good-bye.
"My mother will be sure to write to you," he said.
She would not let him walk with her as far as her lodgings, but shook hands with him with some pleasure in her face.
"I am so glad I met you," she repeated, and he echoed the sentiment.
As soon as he got home that day he went straight to his mother.
"You are better, are you not?" he said to her.
Mrs. Trevor was a middle-aged woman, who was more or less of an invalid. She was devoted to her son Maurice, and, although she delighted in feeling that he was provided for for life owing to Mrs. Aylmer's generosity, she missed him morning, noon, and night.