“Dear Sir Adrian is so romantic,” says Dora coyly.

“Is he?” responds her cousin dryly.  “He has always seemed to me the sanest of men.  Well, on what matter do you wish to consult me?”

“Dear Florence, how terribly prosaic and unsympathetic you are to-day,” says Dora reproachfully; “and I came to you so sure of offers of love and friendship!  I want you to tell me if you think I ought to meet him or not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know”—­with a little simper.  “Is it perhaps humoring him too much?  I have always dreaded letting a man imagine I cared for him, unless fully, utterly, assured of his affection for me.”

Florence colors again, and then grows deadly pale, as this poisoned barb pierces her bosom.

“I should think,” she says slowly, “after reading the letter you have just shown me, you ought to feel assured.”

“You believe I ought, really?”—­with a fine show of eagerness.  “Now, you are not saying this to please me—­to gratify me?”

“I should not please or gratify any one at the expense of truth.”

“No, of course not.  You are such a high-principled girl, so different from many others.  Then you think I might go and meet him this evening without sacrificing my dignity in any way?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” exclaimed little Mrs. Talbot rapturously, nodding her “honorable” head with a beaming smile, “because I do so want to meet him, dear fellow!  And I value your opinion, Flo, more highly than that of any other friend I possess.  You are so solid, so thoughtful—­such a dear thing altogether.”

Florence takes no heed of this rodomontade, but sits quite still, with downcast eyes, tapping the small table near her with the tips of her slender fingers in a meditative fashion.

“The fact is,” continues Dora, who is watching her closely, “I may as well let you into a little secret.  Yesterday Sir Adrian and I had a tiny, oh, such a tiny little dispute, all about nothing, I assure you”—­with a gay laugh—­“but to us it seemed quite important.  He said he was jealous of me.  Now just fancy that, Flo; jealous of poor little me!”

“It is quite possible; you are pretty—­most men admire you,” Florence remarks coldly, still without raising her eyes.

“Ah, you flatter me, naughty girl!  Well, silly as it sounds, he actually was jealous, and really gave me quite a scolding.  It brought tears to my eyes, it upset me so.  So, to tell the truth, we parted rather bad friends; and, to be revenged on me, I suppose, he rather neglected me for the remainder of the day.”

Again Florence is silent, though her tormentor plainly waits for a lead from her before going on.

“You must have remarked,” she continues presently, “how cold and reserved he was toward me when we were all together in that dreadful haunted chamber.”  Here she really shudders, in spite of herself.  The cruel eyes of Arthur Dynecourt seem to be on her again, as they were in that ghostly room.