Her knowledge of human nature probably went so far as to teach her that she could thus most torment her daughter.  It was not that she wished to torment her in a revengeful spirit.  She was quite sure within her own bosom that she did all in love.  She was devoted to her daughter.  But she was thwarted; and therefore told herself that she could best farther the girl’s interests by tormenting her.  It was not meditated revenge, but that revenge which springs up without any meditation, and is often therefore the most bitter.  “I must bring her nose to the grindstone,” was the manner in which she would have probably expressed her thoughts to herself.  Consequently Florence’s nose was brought to the grindstone, and the operation made her miserable.  She would not, however, complain when she had discovered what her mother was doing.  She asked such questions as appeared to be natural, and put up with replies which purposely withheld all information.  “Mamma, have you not settled on what day we shall start?” “No, my dear.”  “Mamma, where are we going?” “I cannot tell you as yet; I am by no means sure myself.”  “I shall be glad to know, mamma, what I am to pack up for use on the journey.”  “Just the same as you would do on any journey.”  Then Florence held her tongue, and consoled herself with thinking of Harry Annesley.

At last the day came, and she knew that she was to be taken to Boulogne.  Before this time she had received one letter from Harry, full of love, full of thanks,—­just what a lover’s letter ought to have been;—­but yet she was disturbed by it.  It had been delivered to herself in the usual way, and she might have concealed the receipt of it from her mother, because the servants in the house were all on her side.  But this would not be in accordance with the conduct which she had arranged for herself, and she told her mother.  “It is just an acknowledgment of mine to him.  It was to have been expected, but I regret it.”

“I do not ask to see it,” said Mrs. Mountjoy, angrily.

“I could not show it you, mamma, though I think it right to tell you of it.”

“I do not ask to see it, I tell you.  I never wish to hear his name again from your tongue.  But I knew how it would be;—­of course.  I cannot allow this kind of thing to go on.  It must be prevented.”

“It will not go on, mamma.”

“But it has gone on.  You tell me that he has already written.  Do you think it proper that you should correspond with a young man of whom I do not approve?” Florence endeavored to reflect whether she did think it proper or not.  She thought it quite proper that she should love Harry Annesley with all her heart, but was not quite sure as to the correspondence.  “At any rate, you must understand,” continued Mrs. Mountjoy, “that I will not permit it.  All letters, while we are abroad, must be brought to me; and if any come from him they shall be sent back to him.  I do not wish to open his letters, but you cannot be allowed to receive them.  When we are at Brussels I shall consult your uncle upon the subject.  I am very sorry, Florence, that there should be this cause of quarrel between us; but it is your doing.”