Now, it had come to pass that not a word had been said as to Harry Annesley since the mother and daughter had reached Brussels.  Mrs. Mountjoy had declared that she would consult her brother-in-law in that difficulty, but no such consultation had as yet taken place.  Indeed, Florence would not have found her sojourn at Brussels to be unpleasant were it not for Mr. Anderson’s unpalatable little whispers.  She had taken them as jokes as long as she had been able to do so, but was now at last driven to perceive that other people would not do so.  “Mamma,” she said, “don’t you think that that Mr. Anderson is an odious young man?”

“No, my dear, by no means.  What is there odious about him?  He is very lively; he is the second son of Sir Gregory Anderson, and has very comfortable means of his own.”

“Oh, mamma, what does that signify?”

“Well, my dear, it does signify.  In the first place, he is a gentleman, and in the next, has a right to make himself attentive to any young lady in your position.  I don’t say anything more.  I am not particularly wedded to Mr. Anderson.  If he were to come to me and ask for my permission to address you, I should simply refer him to yourself, by which I should mean to imply that if he could contrive to recommend himself to you I should not refuse my sanction.”

Then the subject for that moment dropped, but Florence was astonished to find that her mother could talk about it, not only without reference to Harry Annesley, but also without an apparent thought of Mountjoy Scarborough; and it was distressing to her to think that her mother should pretend to feel that she, her own daughter, should be free to receive the advances of another suitor.  As she reflected it came across her mind that Harry was so odious that her mother would have been willing to accept on her behalf any suitor who presented himself, even though her daughter, in accepting him, should have proved herself to be heartless.  Any alternative would have been better to her mother than that choice to which Florence had determined to devote her whole life.

“Mamma,” she said, going back to the subject on the next day, “if I am to stay here for three weeks longer—­”

“Yes, my dear, you are to stay here for three weeks longer.”

“Then somebody must say something to Mr. Anderson.”

“I do not see who can say it but you yourself.  As far as I can see, he has not misbehaved.”

“I wish you would speak to my uncle.”

“What am I to tell him?”

“That I am engaged.”

“He would ask me to whom, and I cannot tell him.  I should then be driven to put the whole case in his hands, and to ask his advice.  You do not suppose that I am going to say that you are engaged to marry that odious young man?  All the world knows how atrociously badly he has behaved to your own cousin.  He left him lying for dead in the street by a blow from his own hand; and though