Together with Augustus Scarborough at Cambridge had been one Harry
Annesley, and he it was to whom the captain in his wrath had sworn to
put an end if he should come between him and his love. Harry Annesley
had been introduced to the captain by his brother, and an intimacy had
grown up between them. He had brought him to Tretton Park when Florence
was there, and Harry had since made his own way to Cheltenham, and had
endeavored to plead his own cause after his own fashion. This he had
done after the good old English plan, which is said to be somewhat
loutish, but is not without its efficacy. He had looked at her, and
danced with her, and done the best with his gloves and his cravat, and
had let her see by twenty unmistakable signs that in order to be
perfectly happy he must be near her. Her gloves, and her flowers, and
her other little properties were sweeter to him than any scents, and
were more valuable in his eyes than precious stones. But he had never as
yet actually asked her to love him. But she was so quick a linguist that
she had understood down to the last letter what all these tokens had
meant. Her cousin, Captain Scarborough, was to her magnificent,
powerful, but terrible withal. She had asked herself a thousand times
whether it would be possible for her to love him and to become his wife.
She had never quite given even to herself an answer to this question
till she had suddenly found herself enabled to do so by his
over-confidence in asking her to confess that she loved him. She had
never acknowledged anything, even to herself, as to Harry Annesley. She
had never told herself that it would be possible that he should ask her
any such question. She had a wild, dreamy, fearful feeling that,
although it would be possible to her to refuse her cousin, it would be
impossible that she should marry any other while he should still be
desirous of making her his wife. And now Captain Scarborough had