In that slender, lovely form was embodied indomitable pride and strong self-will.
Her heart swelled with bitterness against St. George Beresford, who, after pretending to love her with such entire devotion, could be so easily swayed from his allegiance by another’s will.
“He was not worthy my love!” she cried bitterly to her heart, as she flitted along Fifth Avenue in the glare of the lights, but so plainly dressed and heavily veiled that none could notice the wonderful beauty that might have attracted unwelcome admiration.
As her flight from Alva’s protection had been carefully planned ever since she had heard of St. George’s projected return, Floy had made sure of a refuge that, though lowly, would be safe and secure.
In an humble quarter of the city, not very far away from the Beresford mansion, lived a poor woman who made her living by lace-mending and embroidery. The Beresford ladies frequently employed her, and Floy had seen her a number of times during her stay with Alva. She knew that the woman lived alone very quietly with an aged, bed-ridden mother, and she had made private arrangements to go and board with this humble soul for a week until she could make arrangements for her future.
To this humble home Floy made her way without accident of any kind, and was welcomed by Ruth Bascom, the spinster lace-mender. That night the restless little golden head was pillowed on straw instead of down, the luxury of yesterday exchanged for the poverty of to-day.
She sat upon the side of the hard cot looking about her with a bitter smile, wondering why fortune was so unequally divided in this world, and if the Beresfords deserved wealth and happiness any more than she and the Bascoms did poverty and pain.
A passionate wish came to her to meet the Beresfords on equal grounds—to be rich and grand, to wear jewels and laces, and dance at their grand balls.
“They would not pity and scorn me then—they would be glad for their son to marry me,” she thought.
The wish grew into a longing as the sleepless hours wore on.