CHAPTER XLVIII.
A STRANGE ROMANCE.
He said, with a long-drawn sigh:
“Life is sad to many, my dear little girl, and perhaps I have had as sad an experience as any.”
She looked at him with questioning eyes, and, although he was usually very quiet and reserved, after the English nature, the lovely face drew him so strangely to her that he continued:
“Suppose we compare notes. I will tell you what a great sorrow I have had in my life, and then you may tell me your story.”
Floy did not reply, and he saw her rosy under lip quiver as if she repressed a sob with difficulty.
She was thinking with pride and pain:
“I can never tell this kind and noble gentleman the story of my blighted love-dream. I do not believe that he could understand a nature so ignoble, so fickle as that of the handsome lover I trusted so fondly, and who failed me so cruelly in the end. His name shall never pass my lips either in praise or blame, although I never can forget him.”
Her new friend continued in a clear, low voice, just audible above the rumble of their carriage-wheels on the stony street:
“But I have not told you who I am yet, so perhaps I had better introduce myself. My name is Miller. I am an Englishman, and but a few months ago inherited a title and large estate from my father, who was a peer of the realm.”