“Yes, indeed; and there is but little good in speculating upon it now.  You know this place, do you not—­the house, I mean, and the gardens?”

“Not very well.”  Florence, as she answered this question, began again to tremble.  “Take a turn with me, and I will show you the garden.  My hat and cloak are in the hall.”  Then Florence got up to accompany her, trembling very much inwardly.  “Miss Burton and I are going out for a few minutes,” said Lady Ongar, addressing herself to Mrs. Clavering.  “We will not keep you waiting very long.”

“We are in no hurry,” said Mrs. Clavering.  Then Florence was carried off, and found herself alone with her conquered rival.

“Not that there is much to show you,” said Lady Ongar—­“indeed nothing; but the place must be of more interest to you than to any one else, and if you are fond of that sort of thing, no doubt you will make it all that is charming.”

“I am very fond of a garden,” said Florence.

“I don’t know whether I am.  Alone, by myself I think I should care nothing for the prettiest Eden in all England.  I don’t think I would care for a walk through the Elysian fields by myself.  I am a chameleon, and take the color of those with whom I live.  My future colors will not be very bright, as I take it.  It’s a gloomy place enough, is it not?  But there are fine trees, you see, which are the only things which one can not by any possibility command.  Given good trees, taste and money may do anything very quickly, as I have no doubt you’ll find.”

“I don’t suppose I shall have much to do with it—­at present.”

“I should think that you will have everything to do with it.  There, Miss Burton, I brought you here to show you this very spot, and to make to you my confession here, and to get from you, here, one word of confidence, if you will give it me.”  Florence was trembling now outwardly as well as inwardly.  “You know my story—­as far, I mean, as I had a story once, in conjunction with Harry Clavering?”

“I think I do,” said Florence.

“I am sure you do,” said Lady Ongar.  “He has told me that you do, and what he says is always true.  It was here, on this spot, that I gave him back his troth to me, and told him that I would have none of his love, because he was poor.  That is barely two years ago.  Now he is poor no longer.  Now, had I been true to him, a marriage with him would have been, in a prudential point of view, all that any woman could desire.  I gave up the dearest heart, the sweetest temper, ay, and the truest man that, that—­ Well, you have won him instead, and he has been the gainer.  I doubt whether I ever should have made him happy, but I know that you will do so.  It was just here that I parted from him.”

“He has told me of that parting,” said Florence.

“I am sure he has.  And, Miss Burton, if you will allow me to say one word further—­do not be made to think any ill of him because of what happened the other day.”