Conversation was at first somewhat flat between the two.  If the old lady could have been induced to remain up-stairs, Harry felt that the evening would have been much more satisfactory.  But, as it was, he found himself enabled to make some progress.  He at once began to address Florence as his undoubted future spouse, very slyly using words adapted for that purpose:  and she, without any outburst of her intention,—­as she had made when discussing the matter with her cousin,—­answered him in the same spirit, and by degrees came so to talk as though the matter were entirely settled.  And then, at last, that future day was absolutely brought on the tapis as though now to be named.

“Three years!” ejaculated Mrs. Mountjoy, as though not even yet surrendering her last hope.

Florence, from the nature of the circumstances, received this in silence.  Had it been ten years she might have expostulated.  But a young lady’s bashfulness was bound to appear satisfied with an assurance of marriage within three years.  But it was otherwise with Harry.  “Good God, Mrs. Mountjoy, we shall all be dead!” he cried out.

Mrs. Mountjoy showed by her countenance that she was extremely shocked.  “Oh, Harry!” said Florence, “none of us, I hope, will be dead in three years.”

“I shall be a great deal too old to be married if I am left alive.  Three months, you mean.  It will be just the proper time of year, which does go for something.  And three months is always supposed to be long enough to allow a girl to get her new frocks.”

“You know nothing about it, Harry,” said Florence.  And so the matter was discussed—­in such a manner that when Harry took his departure that evening he was half inclined to sing a song of himself about the conquering hero.  “Dear mamma!” said Florence, kissing her mother with all the warm, clinging affection of former years.  It was very pleasant,—­but still Mrs. Mountjoy went to her room with a sad heart.

When there she sat for a while over the fire, and then drew out her desk.  She had been beaten,—­absolutely beaten,—­and it was necessary that she should own so much in writing to one person.  So she wrote her letter, which was as follows: 

“Dear Mountjoy,—­After all it cannot be as I would have had it.  As they say, ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’  I would have given her to you now, and would even yet have trusted that you would have treated her well, had it not been that Mr. Annesley has gained such a hold upon her affections.  She is wilful, as you are, and I cannot bend her.  It has been the longing of my heart that you two should live together at Tretton.  But such longings are, I think, wicked, and are seldom realized.

“I write now just this one line to tell you that it is all settled.  I have not been strong enough to prevent such settling.  He talks of three months!  But what does it matter?  Three months or three years will be the same to you, and nearly the same to me.