His voice died away in a whisper.
"I have a true and serious friendship for you, Mr. Ainsley," she answered, coyly; "but I—I have never thought of such a thing as love or marriage."
"Will you think of it now?" he answered, eagerly.
He loved her all the more for this sweet, womanly, modest hesitation.
She arose from the seat near the fountain where he had placed her.
"Well, let it rest in that way," she answered. "I'll refer the subject to mamma; but you are not to say one word of love to me, nor speak to her about the matter for at least two months."
"Florence, you are cruel," he cried, "to keep me so long in suspense. Tell me, at least, that if your mother favors my suit, I may hope that you are not indifferent to me."
But she would not answer him. Her heart beat high, the fever of love throbbed in her veins; but, like all well-bred young girls, she had been schooled by early training to make no sign of preference for any man at his first avowal of affection. As he led her from the conservatory, past the fountain, the fragrant water-lilies, past the green palms and the flowering orchids, he gave a terrible start.
In that moment there came to him the memory of Ida May. He was annoyed by the very thought of her in that hour, and he quickly put it from him.
When they returned to the ball-room, Florence was as sweet as ever; but neither by word or by sign did she betray any rememberance of the scene which had just occurred in the conservatory.