was out, and Harry at once inquired for Florence. The servant at first
seemed to hesitate, but at last showed Harry into the dining-room. There
he waited five minutes, which seemed to him to be half an hour, and then
Florence came to him. "Your mother is not at home," he said, putting out
his hand.

"No, Mr. Annesley, but I think she will be back soon. Will you wait for
her?"

"I do not know whether I am not glad that she should be out. Florence, I
have something that I must tell you."

"Something that you must tell me!"

He had called her Florence once before, on a happy afternoon which he
well remembered, but he was not thinking of that now. Her name, which
was always in his mind, had come to him naturally, as though he had no
time to pick and choose about names in the importance of the
communication which he had to make. "Yes. I don't believe that you were
ever really engaged to your cousin Mountjoy."

"No, I never was," she answered, briskly. Harry Annesley was certainly a
handsome man, but no young man living ever thought less of his own
beauty. He had fair, wavy hair, which he was always submitting to some
barber, very much to the unexpressed disgust of poor Florence; because
to her eyes the longer the hair grew the more beautiful was the wearer
of it. His forehead, and eyes, and nose were all perfect in their form--

"Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command."