“I hope I leave you soon to be the same, in spite of this little accident.”

He did not say that he was a blighted being, because the word had, he thought, become ridiculous; but he would have used it had he dared, as expressing most accurately his condition.

“A cloud has passed over me, and its darkness will never be effaced.  It has certainly been your doing.”

“Oh, Mr. Anderson! what can I say?”

“I have loved before,—­but never like this.”

“And so you will again.”

“Never!  When I declare that, I expect my word to be respected,” He paused for an answer, but what could she say?  She did not at all respect his word on such a subject, but she did respect his conduct.  “Yes; I call upon you to believe me when I say that for me all that is over.  But it can be nothing to you.”

“It will be very much to me.”

“I shall go on in the same disconsolate, miserable way, I suppose I shall stay here, because I shall be as well here as anywhere else.  I might move to Lisbon,—­but what good would that do me?  Your image would follow me to whatever capital I might direct my steps.  But there is one thing you can do.”  Here he brightened up, putting on quite an altered face.

“I will do anything, Mr. Anderson—­in my power.”

“If—­if—­if you should change—­”

“I shall never change!” she said, with an angry look.

“If you should change, I think you should remember the promise you exacted and the fidelity with which it has been kept.”

“I do remember it.”

“And then I should be allowed to come again and have my chance.  Wherever I may be, at the court of the Shah of Persia or at the Chinese capital, I will instantly come.  I promised you when you asked me.  Will you not now promise me?”

“I cannot promise anything—­so impossible.”

“It will bind you to nothing but to let me know that Mr. Annesley has gone his way.”  But she had to explain to him that it was impossible she should make any promise founded on the idea that Mr. Henry Annesley should ever go any way in which she would not accompany him.  With that he had to be as well satisfied as the circumstances of the case would admit, and he left her with an assurance, not intended to be quite audible, that he was and ever should be a blighted individual.

When the carriage was at the door Sir Magnus came down into the hall, full of smiles and good-humor; but at that moment Lady Mountjoy was saying a last word of farewell to her relatives in her own chamber.  “Good-bye, my dear; I hope you will get well through all your troubles.”  This was addressed to Mrs. Mountjoy.  “And as for you, my dear,” she said, turning to Florence, “if you would only contrive to be a little less stiff-necked, I think the world would go easier with you.”

“I think my stiff neck, aunt, as you call it, is what I have chiefly to depend upon,—­I mean in reference to other advice than mamma’s.  Good-bye, aunt.”