He dropped with difficulty on one knee before Floy, muttering:
“I crave your pardon, Miss Fane, for my rudeness just now. I swear I meant no harm except to kiss you. But I had been drinking—and I will own it—I was mad with love for you. But I never should have frightened you so only that I had drunk too much wine and I lost my head. I’m glad Beresford threw me out of the window, for my madness deserved it, though I’m a mass of bruises, and my ankle is either sprained or broken. But that does not matter so that you forgive me. Will you?” contritely.
Floy had the tenderest heart in the world, and Otho’s repentance was so frank and engaging that she hesitated.
“Do you think I ought to forgive him?” she whispered to Beresford, with a ravishing little air of reliance on his judgment!
He shrugged his shoulders, and replied, carelessly:
“Perhaps so—since he asks it.”
“Very well,” said Floy; and looking coldly at the offender, she said, proudly: “I forgive you, as you say you are sorry; but don’t you ever dare speak to me again!”
She was turning away, with her head held high in scorn, but he caught at her sleeve.
“One moment, please. I have another favor to ask of you and—Beresford,” the last word with a gulp, as if swallowing his pride with difficulty.
They both stopped to listen, and he muttered: