friend."

Florence winces, and sinks back upon the seat as though unable to
sustain an upright position any longer. Every word of his is as gall
and wormwood to her, each sentence a reminder--a reproach. Only the
other day this man now beside her had accused her of making sure of Sir
Adrian's affection before she had any right so to do. Her proud spirit
shrinks beneath the cruel taunt he hurls at her.

"You look unusually 'done up,'" he goes on, in a tone of assumed
commiseration. "This evening has been too much for you. Acting a part
at any time is extremely trying and laborious."

She shrinks still further from him. Acting a part! Is not all her life
becoming one dreary drama, in which she acts a part from morning until
night? Is there to be no rest for her? Oh, to escape from this man at
any price! She rises to her feet.

"Our dance is almost at an end," she says; "and the heat is terrible.
I can remain here no longer."

"You are ill," he exclaims eagerly, going to her side. He would have
supported her, but by a gesture she repels him.

"If I am, it is you who have made me so," she retorts, with quick
passion, for which she despises herself an instant later.

"Nay, not I," he rejoins, "but what my words have unconsciously conveyed
to you. Do not blame me. I thought you, as well as every one else here,
knew of Adrian's sentiments with regard to Mrs. Talbot."