Afraid to venture too near, she obtains a view of the walk from a high position framed in by rhododendrons.  Yes, now she can see Dora, and now she can see too, the man who comes eagerly to meet her.  His face is slightly turned away from her, but the tall figure clad in the loose light overcoat is not to be mistaken.  He advances quickly, and meets Dora with both hands outstretched.  She appears to draw back a little, and then he seizes her hands, and, stooping, covers them with kisses.

A film seems to creep over Florence’s eyes.  With a stifled groan, she turns and flies homeward.  Again in the privacy of her own room, and having turned the key securely in the lock to keep out all intruders, she flings herself upon her bed and cries as if her heart would break.

* * * * *

Not until her return to her room does Dora remember that she did not get back the false letter from her cousin.  In the heat of the conversation she had forgotten it, but now, a fear possessing her lest Florence should show it to any one, she runs upstairs and knocks at Miss Delmaine’s door.

“Come in,” calls Florence slowly.

It is three hours since she went for her unhappy walk to the lime-grove, and now she is composed again, and is waiting for the gong to sound before descending to the drawing-room, where she almost dreads the thought that she will be face to face with Sir Adrian.  She is dressed for dinner, has indeed taken most particular pains with her toilet, if only to hide the ravages that these past three hours of bitter weeping have traced upon her beautiful face.  She looks sad still, but calm and dignified.

Dora is dressed too, but is looking flurried and flushed.

“I beg your pardon,” she says; “but my letter—­the letter I showed you to-day—­have you it?”

“No,” replies Florence simply; “I thought I gave it back to you; but, if not, it must be here on this table”—­lifting a book or two from the small gypsy-table near which she had been sitting when Dora came to her room early in the day.

Dora looks for it everywhere, in a somewhat nervous, frightened manner, Florence helping her the while; but nothing comes of their search, and they are fain to go down-stairs without it, as the gong sounding loudly tells them they are already late.

“Never mind,” says Dora, afraid of having betrayed too much concern.  “It is really of no consequence.  I only wanted it, because—­well, because”—­with the simper that drives Florence nearly mad—­“he wrote it.”

“I shall tell my maid to look for it, and, if she finds it, you shall have it this evening,” responds Florence, with a slight contraction of her brows that passes unnoticed.

To Florence’s mortification, Arthur Dynecourt takes her in to dinner.  On their way across the hall from the drawing-room to the dining-room, he presses the hand that rests so reluctantly upon his arm, and says, with an affectation of the sincerest concern—­