At the mention of Sir Adrian’s name the color dies out of her face and she grows deadly pale.  Her lips quiver, but her eyes do not droop.

“I do not understand you,” she says proudly.

“Then you shall,” responds Dynecourt.  “Do you think I am blind, that I can not see how you have given your proud heart to my cousin, that he has conquered where other men have failed; that, even before he has declared any love for you, you have, in spite of your pride, given all your affection to him?”

“You insult me,” cries Florence, with quivering lips.  She looks faint, and is trembling visibly.  If this man has read her heart aright, may not all the guests have read it too?  May not even Adrian himself have discovered her secret passion, and perhaps despised her for it, as being unwomanly?

“And more,” goes on Dynecourt, exulting in the torture he can see he is inflicting; “though you thrust from you an honorable love for one that lives only in your imagination, I will tell you that Sir Adrian has other views, other intentions.  I have reason to know that, when he marries, the name of his bride will not be Florence Delmaine.”

“Leave me, sir,” cries Florence, rousing herself from her momentary weakness, and speaking with all her old fire, “and never presume to address me again.  Go!”

She points with extended hand to the door at the lower end of the gallery.  So standing, with her eyes strangely bright, and her perfect figure drawn up to its fullest height, she looks superb in her disdainful beauty.

Dynecourt, losing his self-possession as he gazes upon her, suddenly flings himself at her feet and catches her dress in his hands to detain her.

“Have pity on me,” he cries imploringly; “it is my unhappy love for you that has driven me to speak thus!  Why is Adrian to have all, and I nothing?  He has title, lands, position—­above and beyond everything, the priceless treasure of your love, whilst I am bankrupt in all.  Show me some mercy—­some kindness!”

They are both so agitated that they fail to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Release me, sir,” cries Florence imperiously.

“Nay; first answer me one question,” entreats Dynecourt.  “Do you love my cousin?”

“I care nothing for Sir Adrian!” replies Florence distinctly, and in a somewhat raised tone, her self-pride being touched to the quick.

Two figures who have entered the gallery by the second door at the upper end of it, hearing these words uttered in an emphatic tone, start and glance at the tableau presented to their view lower down.  They hesitate, and, even as they do so, they can see Arthur Dynecourt seize Florence Delmaine’s hand, and, apparently unrebuked, kiss it passionately.

“Then I shall hope still,” he says in a low but impressive voice, at which the two who have just entered turn and beat a precipitate retreat, fearing that they may be seen.  One is Sir Adrian, the other Mrs. Talbot.