“But indeed, my dearest Flo, you must not imagine anything.  All is vague.  I myself hardly know what it is to which I am alluding.  ’Trifles light as air’ float through my brain, and gladden me in spite of my common sense, which whispers that they may mean nothing.  Do not build castles for me that may have their existence only en Espagne.”

“They seem very bright castles,” observes Florence wistfully.

“A bad omen.  ‘All that’s bright must fade,’ sings the poet.  And now to speak of yourself.  You enjoyed yourself?”

“Of course—­” mechanically.

“Ah, yes; I was glad to see you had made it up with poor Arthur Dynecourt!”

“How?” demands Florence, turning upon her quickly.

“I saw you dancing with him, dearest; I was with Sir Adrian at the time, and from something he said, I think he would be rather pleased if you could bring yourself to reward poor Arthur’s long devotion.”

“Sir Arthur said that?  He discussed me with you?”

“Just in passing, you understand.  He told me too that you were somewhat unhappy in the earlier part of the evening, and that he had to stay a considerable time with you to restore you to calmness.  He is always so kind, dear Adrian!”

“He spoke of that?” demands Florence, in a tone of anguish.  If he had made her emotion a subject of common talk with Mrs. Talbot, all indeed is at an end between them, even that sweet visionary offer of friendship he had made to her.  No; she could not submit to be talked about by him, and the woman he loves!  Oh, the bitter pang it costs her to say these words to herself!  That he now loves Dora seems to her mind beyond dispute.  Is she not his confidante, the one in whom he chooses to repose all his secret thoughts and surmises?

Dora regards her cousin keenly.  Florence’s evident agitation makes her fear that there was more in that tete-a-tete with Sir Adrian than she had at first imagined.

“Yes; why should he not speak of it?” Dora goes on coldly.  “I think by his manner your want of self-control shocked him.  You should have a greater command over yourself.  It is not good form to betray one’s feelings to every chance passer-by.  Yes; I think Sir Adrian was both surprised and astonished.”

“There was nothing to cause him either surprise or astonishment,” says Florence haughtily; “and I could well have wished him out of the way!”

“Perhaps I misunderstood him,” rejoins Dora artfully.  “But certainly he spoke to me of being unpleasantly delayed by—­by impossible people—­those were his very words; and really altogether—­I may be wrong—­I believed he alluded to you.  Of course, I would not follow the matter up, because, much as I like Sir Adrian, I could not listen to him speaking lightly of you!”

“Of me—­you forget yourself, Dora!” cries Florence, with pale lips, but head erect.  “Speaking lightly of me!” she repeats.