Sir Adrian sees all this too, but persuades himself that she is now acting another part—­the part shown him by Mrs. Talbot.  His eyes are blinded by jealousy; he can not see the purity and truth reflected in hers; he misconstrues the pained expression that of late has saddened her face.

For the last few days, ever since her momentous interview with Arthur Dynecourt in the gallery, she has been timid and reserved with Sir Adrian, and has endeavored to avoid his society.  She is oppressed with the thought that he has read her secret love for him, and seeks, by an assumed coldness of demeanor and a studied avoidance of him, to induce him to believe himself mistaken.

But Sir Adrian is only rendered more miserable by this avoidance, in the thought that probably Mrs. Talbot has told Florence of his discovery of her attachment to Arthur, and that she dreads his taxing her with her duplicity, and so makes strenuous efforts to keep herself apart from him.  They have already drifted so far apart that to-night, when the play has come to an end, and Florence has retired from the dressing-room, Sir Adrian does not dream of approaching her to offer the congratulations on her success that he would have showered upon her in a happier hour.

Florence, feeling lonely and depressed, having listlessly submitted to her maid’s guidance and changed her stage gown for a pale blue ball-dress of satin and pearls—­as dancing is to succeed the earlier amusement of the evening—­goes silently down-stairs, but, instead of pursuing her way to the ball-room, where dancing has already commenced, she turns aside, and, entering a small, dimly lighted antechamber, sinks wearily upon a satin-covered lounge.

From a distance the sweet strains of a German waltz come softly to her ears.  There is deep sadness and melancholy in the music that attunes itself to her own sorrowful reflections.  Presently the tears steal down her cheeks.  She feels lonely and neglected, and, burying her head in the cushions of the lounge, sobs aloud.

She does not hear the hasty approach of footsteps until they stop close beside her, and a voice that makes her pulses throb madly says, in deep agitation—­

“Florence—­Miss Delmaine—­what has happened?  What has occurred to distress you?”

Sir Adrian is bending over her, evidently in deep distress himself.  As she starts, he places his arm round her and raises her to a sitting posture; this he does so gently that, as she remembers all she has heard, and his cousin’s assurance that he has almost pledged himself to another, her tears flow afresh.  By a supreme effort, however, she controls herself, and says, in a faint voice—­

“I am very foolish; it was the heat, I suppose, or the nervousness of acting before so many strangers, that has upset me.  It is over now.  I beg you will not remember it, Sir Adrian, or speak of it to any one.”

All this time she has not allowed herself to glance even in his direction, so fearful is she of further betraying the mental agony she is enduring.