Meanwhile, the other party, quite as much disconcerted, had sought another hotel.
Cinthia lay sobbing on a low couch, and Madame Ray knelt by her side, caressing her and murmuring low words of comfort.
“Do not think of him, my darling. He is not worthy of one regret. Only a coward would have deserted you as Arthur Varian did. I am sorry that Fred Foster is his cousin, but that need not matter. He loves you very much, and I would be charmed to see you marry this manly young man.”
“Oh, I can never love again! My heart was broken by Arthur’s falsity!” moaned Cinthia, sobbing in unrestrained grief that she would not have shown to any one on earth but this sympathetic friend she loved so well.
“Forget him, dear,” the other answered, as she had often done before, laying the golden head caressingly against her breast, and kissing the tears from the sad, dark eyes.
When Cinthia had sobbed herself into calmness, she said:
“Of course, we will not go to Newport now. I must not meet them again.”
“No, we must not go to Newport now,” Madame Ray agreed; adding: “I shall go on from New York to my home in Florida—a pretty estate left to me last year by an old maiden aunt—and, Cinthia, I want you and your father to come with me as my guests.”
“But perhaps we ought to go and visit Aunt Flint first,” suggested Cinthia.
“No; for you are in danger of meeting the Varians there.”