“I don’t know what you mean by that.  Mr. Anderson has behaved himself quite like a gentleman, and you ought to be very proud of any token you may receive of his regard and affection.”

“But I’m not bound to return to it.”

“You are bound to think of it when those who are responsible for your actions tell you to do so.”

“Mamma, you mean?”

“I mean your uncle, Sir Magnus Mountjoy.”  She did not quite dare to say that she had meant herself.  “I suppose you will admit that Sir Magnus is a competent judge of young men’s characters?”

“He may be a judge of Mr. Anderson, because Mr. Anderson is his clerk.”

There was something of an intention to depreciate in the word “clerk.”  Florence had not thought much of Mr. Anderson’s worth, nor, as far as she had seen them, of the duties generally performed at the British Embassy.  She was ignorant of the peculiar little niceties and intricacies which required the residence at Brussels of a gentleman with all the tact possessed by Sir Magnus.  She did not know that while the mere international work of the office might be safely intrusted to Mr. Blow and Mr. Bunderdown, all those little niceties, that smiling and that frowning, that taking off of hats and only half taking them off, that genial, easy manner, and that stiff hauteur, formed the peculiar branch of Sir Magnus himself,—­and, under Sir Magnus, of Mr. Anderson.  She did not understand that even to that pair of ponies which was promised to her were to be attached certain important functions, which she was to control as the deputy of the great man’s deputy And now she had called the great man’s deputy a clerk!

“Mr. Anderson is no such thing,” said Lady Mountjoy.

“His young man, then,—­or private secretary;—­only somebody else is that.”

“You are very impertinent and very ungrateful.  Mr. Anderson is second secretary of legation.  There is no officer attached to our establishment of more importance.  I believe you say it on purpose to anger me.  And then you compare this gentleman to Mr. Annesley, a man to whom no one will speak.”

“I will speak to him.”  Had Harry heard her say that, he ought to have been a happy man in spite of his trouble.

“You!  What good can you do him?” Florence nodded her head, almost imperceptibly, but still there was a nod, signifying more than she could possibly say.  She thought that she could do him a world of good if she were near him, and some good, too, though she were far away.  If she were with him she could hang on to his arm,—­or perhaps at some future time round his neck,—­and tell him that she would be true to him though all others might turn away.  And she could be just as true where she was, though she could not comfort him by telling him so with her own words.  Then it was that she resolved upon writing that letter.  He should already have what little comfort she might administer in his absence.  “Now, listen to me, Florence.  He is a thorough reprobate.”