M. Grascour, when he heard that the day had been suddenly fixed for the departure of Mrs. Mountjoy and her daughter, not unnaturally conceived that he himself was the cause of the ladies’ departure.  Nor did he on that account resign all hope.  The young lady’s mother was certainly on his side, and he thought it quite possible that were he to appear in England he might be successful.  But when he had heard of her coming departure of course it was necessary that he should say some special farewell.  He dined one evening at the British Embassy, and took an opportunity during the evening of finding himself alone with Florence.  “And so, Miss Florence,” he said, “you and your estimable mamma are about to return to England?”

“We have been here a very long time, and are going home at last.”

“It seems to me but the other day when you came.” said M. Grascour, with all a lover’s eagerness.

“It was in autumn, and the weather was quite mild and soft.  Now we are in the middle of January.”

“I suppose so.  But still the time has gone only too rapidly.  The heart can hardly take account of days and weeks.”  As this was decidedly lover’s talk, and was made in terms which even a young lady cannot pretend to misunderstand, Florence was obliged to answer it in some manner equally direct.  And now she was angry with him.  She had informed him that she was in love with another man.  In doing so she had done much more than the necessity of the case demanded, and had told him, as the best way of silencing him, that which she might have been expected to keep as her own secret.  And yet here he was talking to her about his heart!  She made him no immediate answer, but frowned at him and looked stern.  It was clear to her intelligence that he had no right to talk to her about his heart after the information she had given him.  “I hope, Miss Mountjoy, that I may look forward to the pleasure of seeing you when I go over to England.”

“But we don’t live in London, or near it.  We live down in the country—­at Cheltenham.”

“Distance would be nothing.”

This was very bad, and must be stopped, thought Florence.  “I suppose I shall be married by that time.  I don’t know where we may live, but I shall be happy to see you if you call.”

She had here made a bold assertion, and one which M. Grascour did not at all believe.  He was speaking of a visit which he might make, perhaps, in a month or six weeks, and the young lady told him that he would find her married!  And yet, as he knew very well, her mother and her uncle and her aunt were all opposed to this marriage.  And she spoke of it without a blush,—­without any reticence!  Young ladies were much emancipated, but he did not think that they generally carried their emancipation so far as this.  “I hope not that,” he said.

“I don’t know why you should be so ill-natured as to hope it.  The fact is, M. Grascour, you don’t believe what I told you the other day.  Perhaps as a young lady I ought not to have alluded to it, but I did so in order to set the matter at rest altogether.  Of course I can’t tell when you may come.  If you come quite at once I shall not be married.”