Mrs. Burnett, Mr. Fisher’s Whitley friend, called to see Florence one afternoon.
“I thought perhaps you would come for a drive with me,” she said; “it is lovely in the Park to-day—such beautiful sunshine.”
“It would be delightful,” Florence answered, for she always liked Mrs. Burnett; “but I am afraid I must go to tea with a cousin in Kensington Gore. I promised to meet Walter there, and go for a walk afterwards.”
“Let me drive you there, at any rate.”
“That would be very kind,” Florence said, and in five minutes they were on their way.
“Have you seen Mr. Fisher lately?” Mrs. Burnett asked, as they went across the Park.
“I saw him two or three weeks ago.”
“He has grown very grave and silent. I have an idea that he fell in love with a rather handsome girl who used to come and see his mother. I think she was a friend of yours, Mrs. Hibbert.”
“He doesn’t look like a man to fall in love,” Florence said, trying not to betray Mr. Fisher’s confidence.
“Oh, but you never know what is going on inside people—their feelings are so often at variance with their appearance. My husband said once that he sometimes thought people drew lots for their souls, because they are so seldom matched with their bodies.”