Sinking down amongst the blue-satin cushions of the seat he has pointed
out to her, Florence sighs softly, and lets her thoughts run, half
sadly, half gladly, upon her late interview with Sir Adrian. At least,
if he has guessed her secret, she knows now that he does not despise
her. There was no trace of contempt in the gentleness, the tenderness of
his manner. And how kindly he had told her of the intended change in his
life! "Their paths would lie far asunder for the future," he had said,
or something tantamount to that. He spoke no doubt of his coming
marriage.

Then she begins to speculate dreamily upon the sort of woman who would
be happy enough to be his wife. She is still idly ruminating on this
point when her companion's voice brings her back to the present. She had
so far forgotten his existence in her day-dreaming that his words come
to her like a whisper from some other world, and occasion her an actual
shock.

"Your thoughtfulness renders me sad," he is saying impressively. "It
carries you to regions where I can not follow you."

To this she makes no reply, regarding him only with a calm questioning
glance that might well have daunted a better man. It only nerves him
however to even bolder words.

"The journey your thoughts have taken--has it been a pleasant one?" he
asks, smiling.

"I have come here for rest, not for conversation." There is undisguised
dislike in her tones. Still he is untouched by her scorn. He even grows