"He ask for my daughter's hand! he, the ingrate! the—Florence, did you believe that he really possessed the base assurance to request your hand of me?"
"Father! father! what does this mean? Did you not tell me on that very evening never to see him again—never to recognize him in the street, or even think of him! Did you not cast him forth from your home and employ because he told you of his love for me and of mine for him?"
"Of your love for him, Florence Hurst!"
There was something terrible in the voice of mingled astonishment and dismay with which this exclamation was made.
"Father!" cried the poor girl, half rising from her seat, and falling back again pale and trembling, "father, why this astonishment? You knew that I loved him!"
"Who told you that I did?"
"He told me, he, Herbert Jameson. It was for this you made him an outcast."
"It is false, Florence, I never dreamed of this degradation!" said Mr. Hurst, in a voice that seemed like sound breaking up through cold marble.
"Then why that command to myself—why was I never to see or hear from him again?" cried Florence, almost gasping for breath.
"Because he is a dishonest man, a swindler—because I solemnly believe that he has been robbing me during the last three years, and squandering his stolen spoil at the gambling-table!"