“He isn’t dressed, Sir Magnus.  He finds himself a little better now, and means to have something up-stairs.”  Then there came an awful silence, during which the dinner was eaten.  Sir Magnus knew nothing of the truth, simply suspecting the headache to be a myth.  Lady Mountjoy, with a woman’s quickness, thought that there had been some words between Florence and her late lover, and, as she disliked Florence, was inclined to throw all the blame upon her.  A word had been said to Mrs. Mountjoy,—­“I don’t think he’ll trouble me any more, mamma,”—­which Mrs. Mountjoy did not quite understand, but which she connected with the young man’s absence.  But Florence understood it all, and liked Mr. Anderson the better.  Could it really be that for love of her he would lose his dinner?  Could it be that he was so grievously afflicted at the loss of a girl’s heart?  There he was, walking out in the dark and the cold, half-famished, all because she loved Harry Annesley so well that there could be no chance for him!  Girls believe so little in the truth of the love of men that any sign of its reality touches them to the core.  Poor Hugh Anderson!  A tear came into her eye as she thought that he was wandering there in the dark, and all for the love of her.  The rest of the dinner passed away in silence, and Sir Magnus hardly became cordial and communicative with M. Grascour, even under the influence of his wine.

On the next morning just before lunch Florence was waylaid by Mr. Anderson as she was passing along one of the passages in the back part of the house.  “Miss Mountjoy,” he said, “I want to ask from your great goodness the indulgence of a few words.”

“Certainly.”

“Could you come into the garden?”

“If you will give me time to go and change my boots and get a shawl.  We ladies are not ready to go out always, as are you gentlemen.”

“Anywhere will do.  Come in here,” and he led the way into a small parlor which was not often used.

“I was so sorry to hear last night that you were unwell, Mr. Anderson.”

“I was not very well, certainly, after what I had heard before dinner.”  He did not tell her that he so far recovered as to be able to drink a bottle of claret and to smoke a couple of cigars in his bedroom.  “Of course you remember what took place yesterday.”

“Remember!  Oh yes.  I shall not readily forget it.”

“I made you a promise—­”

“You did—­very kindly.”

“And I mean to keep it.”

“I’m sure you do, because you’re a gentleman.”

“I don’t think I ought to have made it.”

“Oh, Mr. Anderson!”

“I don’t think I ought.  See what I am giving up.”

“Nothing, except the privilege of troubling me.”

“But if it should be something else?  Do not be angry with me, but, loving you as I do, of course my mind is full of it.  I have promised, and must be dumb.”

“And I shall be spared great vexation.”