“No;—­not married.”

“But I shall be as much engaged as is possible for a girl to be.  I have given my word, and nothing will make me false to it.  I don’t suppose you will come on my account.”

“Solely on your account.”

“Then stay at home.  I am quite in earnest.  And now I must say good-bye.”

She departed, and left him seated alone on the sofa.  He at first told himself that she was unfeminine.  There was a hard way with her of talking about herself which he almost pronounced to be unladylike.  An unmarried girl should, he thought, under no circumstances speak of the gentleman to whom her affections had been given as Miss Mountjoy spoke of Mr. Annesley.  But nevertheless he would sooner possess her as his own wife than any other girl he had ever met.  Something of the real passion of unsatisfied love made him feel chill at his heart.  Who was this Harry Annesley, for whom she professed so warm a feeling?  Her mother declared Harry Annesley to be a scapegrace, and something of the story of a discreditable midnight street quarrel between him and the young lady’s cousin had reached his ears.  He did not suppose it to be possible that the young lady could actually get married without her mother’s co-operation, and therefore he thought that he still would go to England.  In one respect he was altogether untouched.  If he could ultimately succeed in marrying the young lady, she would not be a bit the worse as his wife because she had been attached to Harry Annesley.  That was a kind of folly which a girl could very quickly get over when she had not been allowed to have her own way.  Therefore, upon the whole, he thought that he would go to England.

But the parting with Anderson had also to be endured, and must necessarily be more difficult.  She owed him a debt for having abstained, and she could not go without paying the debt by some expression of gratitude.  That she would have done so had he kept aloof was a matter of course; but equally a matter of course was it that he would not keep aloof.  “I shall want to see you for just five minutes to-morrow morning before you take your departure,” he said, in a lugubrious voice, during her last evening.

He had kept his promise to the very letter, mooning about in his desolate manner very conspicuously.  The desolation had been notorious, and very painful to Florence,—­but the promise had been kept, and she was grateful.  “Oh, certainly, if you wish it,” she said.

“I do wish it.”  Then he made an appointment and she promised to keep it.

It was in the ball-room, a huge chamber, very convenient for its intended purpose, and always handsome at night-time, but looking as desolate in the morning as did poor Anderson himself.  He was stalking up and down the long room when she entered it, and being at the farther end, stalked up to her and addressed her with words which he had chosen for the purpose.  “Miss Mountjoy,” he said, “you found me here a happy, light-hearted young man.”