“Florence!” said Mrs. Mountjoy.

“Yes, Mrs. Mountjoy;—­I have the great honor of asking your permission.  I am well known to Sir Magnus and Lady Mountjoy, and they can tell what are my circumstances.  I am forty years of age.”

“Oh yes; everything is, I am sure, quite as it should be.  But my daughter thinks about these things for herself.”  Then there was a pause, and M. Grascour was about to leave the room, having obtained the permission he desired, when Mrs. Mountjoy thought it well to acquaint him with something of her daughter’s condition.  “I ought to tell you that my daughter has been engaged.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; and I hardly know how to explain the circumstances.  I should say that she had been promised to her cousin, Captain Scarborough; but to this she will not give her assent.  She has since met a gentleman, Mr. Annesley, for whom she professes an attachment.  Neither can I, nor can her uncle and aunt, hear of Mr. Annesley as a husband for Florence.  She is therefore at present disengaged.  If you can gain her affections, you have my leave.”  With this permission M. Grascour departed, professing himself to be contented.

He did not see Florence for two or three days, no doubt leaving the matter to be discussed with her by her mother and her aunt.  To him it was quite indifferent what might be the fate of Captain Scarborough, or of Mr. Annesley, or indeed of Mr. Anderson.  And, to tell the truth, he was not under any violent fear or hope as to his own fate.  He admired Miss Mountjoy, and thought it would be well to secure for a wife such a girl, with such a fortune as would belong to her.  But he did not intend to go “ungartered,” nor yet to assume an air of “desolation.”  If she would come to him, it would be well; if she would not, why, it would still be well.  The only outward difference made by his love was that he brushed his clothes and his hair a little more carefully, and had his boots brought to a higher state of polish than was usual.

Her mother spoke to her first.  “My dear, M. Grascour is a most excellent man.”

“I am sure he is, mamma.”

“And he is a great friend to your uncle and Lady Mountjoy.”

“Why do you say this, mamma?  What can it matter to me?”

“My dear, M. Grascour wishes you to—­to—­to become his wife.”

“Oh, mamma, why didn’t you tell him that it is impossible?”

“How was I to know, my dear?”

“Mamma, I am engaged to marry Harry Annesley, and no word shall ever turn me from that purpose, unless it be spoken by himself.  The crier may say that all round the town if he wishes.  You must know that it is so.  What can be the use of sending M. Grascour or any other gentleman to me?  It is only giving me pain and him too.  I wish, mamma, you could be got to understand this.”  But Mrs. Mountjoy could not altogether be got as yet to understand the obstinacy of her daughter’s character.