“That is the reason, I knew there was an explanation somewhere,” she said in an earnest emotional tone. “I knew how unselfish you were from the first moment I saw you, Florence. It is like you, my darling, not to think of yourself. Try not to do so, for you will feel your loneliness bitterly enough when he is gone.”
“But don’t tell me so,” Florence said, half crying, half laughing. “How did you know about it, Aunt Anne?”
“Mr. Wimple told me.”
“Mr. Wimple—have you seen him then?”
“My love, he is one of the most cultivated men I ever met; we have many tastes and sympathies in common. He wrote to ask me to meet him by the Albert Memorial.”
“To meet him!” Florence exclaimed.
“Yes,” answered the old lady solemnly. “He agrees with me that never was there in any age or country a more beautiful work than the Albert Memorial. We arranged to meet and examine it together; he wrote to me just now and mentioned that Walter was going to India; I telegraphed instantly that I could see no one else to-day, for I thought you would welcome my loving sympathy. I came to offer it to you, Florence.” She said the last words in a disappointed and injured voice.
“It was very kind of you, Aunt Anne; but indeed I have only had time to be glad that he would get a rest and pleasant change of work.”
“I must see him before he goes; I may never do so again,” Mrs. Baines said, after a pause.
“Oh yes, you will, dear.”