Her mother watched her closely as she sat at her breakfast that morning, but much could not be gained by watching Florence Burton when Florence wished to conceal her thoughts.  Many messages were sent to Theodore, to Cecilia, and to the children, messages to others of the Burton clan who were in town, but not a word was said of Harry Clavering.  The very absence of his name was enough to make them all wretched, but Florence bore it as the Spartan boy bore the fox beneath his tunic.  Mrs. Burton could hardly keep herself from a burst of indignation; but she had been strongly warned by her husband, and restrained herself till Florence was gone.  “If he is playing her false,” said she, as soon as she was alone with her old husband, “he shall suffer for it, though I have to tear his face with my own fingers.”

“Nonsense, my dear; nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense, Mr. Burton.  A gentleman, indeed!  He is to be allowed to be dishonest to my girl because he is a gentleman!  I wish there was no such thing as a gentleman;—­so I do.  Perhaps there would be more honest men then.”  It was unendurable to her that a girl of hers should be so treated.

Immediately on the arrival of the train at the London platform, Florence espied Cecilia, and in a minute was in her arms.  There was a special tenderness in her sister-in-law’s caress, which at once told Florence that her fears had not been without cause.  Who has not felt the evil tidings conveyed by the exaggerated tenderness of a special kiss?  But while on the platform and among the porters she said nothing of herself.  She asked after Theodore and heard of the railway confederacy with a show of delight.  “He’d like to make a line from Hyde Park Corner to the Tower of London,” said Florence, with a smile.  Then she asked after the children, and specially for the baby; but as yet she spoke no word of Harry Clavering.  The trunk and the bag were at last found; and the two ladies were packed into a cab, and had started.  Cecilia, when they were seated, got hold of Florence’s hand, and pressed it warmly.  “Dearest,” said she, “I am so glad to have you with us once again.”  “And now,” said Florence, speaking with a calmness that was almost unnatural, “tell me all the truth.”

All the truth!  What a demand it was.  And yet Cecilia had expected that none less would be made upon her.  Of course Florence must have known that there was something wrong.  Of course she would ask as to her lover immediately upon her arrival.  “And now tell me all the truth.”

“Oh, Florence!”

“The truth, then, is very bad?” said Florence, gently.  “Tell me first of all whether you have seen him.  Is he ill?”

“He was with us on Friday.  He is not ill.”

“Thank God for that.  Has anything happened to him?  Has he lost money?”

“No; I have heard nothing about money.”

“Then he is tired of me.  Tell me at once, my own one.  You know me so well.  I can bear it.  Don’t treat me like a coward.”