“I will not hear him so called.  He is no reprobate.”

“He has behaved in such a way that all England is crying out about him.  He has done that which will never allow any gentleman to speak to him again.”

“Then there will be more need that a lady should do so.  But it is not true.”

“You put your knowledge of character against that of Sir Magnus.”

“Sir Magnus does not know the gentleman; I do.  What’s the good of talking of it, aunt?  Harry Annesley has my word, and nothing on earth shall induce me to go back from it.  Even were he what you say I would be true to him.”

“You would?”

“Certainly I would.  I could not willingly begin to love a man whom I knew to be base; but when I had loved him I would not turn because of his baseness;—­I couldn’t do it.  It would be a great—­a terrible misfortune; but it would have to be borne.  But here—­I know all the story to which you allude.”

“I know it too.”

“I am quite sure that the baseness has not been on his part.  In defence of my name he has been silent.  He might have spoken out, if he had known all the truth then.  I was as much his own then as I am now.  One of these days I suppose I shall be more so.”

“You mean to marry him, then?”

“Most certainly I do, or I will never be married; and as he is poor now, and I must have my own money when I am twenty-four, I suppose I shall have to wait till then.”

“Will your mother’s word go for nothing with you?”

“Poor mamma!  I do believe that mamma is very unhappy, because she makes me unhappy.  What may take place between me and mamma I am not bound, I think, to tell you.  We shall be away soon, and I shall be left to mamma alone.”

And mamma would be left alone to her daughter, Lady Mountjoy thought.  The visit must be prolonged so that at last Mr. Anderson might be enabled to prevail.

The visit had been originally intended for a month, but was now prolonged indefinitely.  After that conversation between Lady Mountjoy and her niece two or three things happened, all bearing upon our story.  Florence at once wrote her letter.  If things were going badly in England with Harry Annesley, Harry should at any rate have the comfort of knowing what were her feelings,—­if there might be comfort to him in that.  “Perhaps, after all, he won’t mind what I may say,” she thought to herself; but only pretended to think it, and at once flatly contradicted her own “perhaps.”  Then she told him most emphatically not to reply.  It was very important that she should write.  He was to receive her letter, and there must be an end of it.  She was quite sure that he would understand her.  He would not subject her to the trouble of having to tell her own people that she was maintaining a correspondence, for it would amount to that.  But still when the time came for the answer she had counted it up to the hour.  And when Sir Magnus sent for her and handed to her the letter,—­having discussed that question with her mother,—­she fully expected it, and felt properly grateful to her uncle.  She wanted a little comfort, too, and when she had read the letter she knew that she had received it.