wiping away the tear from her cheek as though it burns her, says
lightly--

"But indeed, my dearest Flo, you must not imagine anything. All is
vague. I myself hardly know what it is to which I am alluding. 'Trifles
light as air' float through my brain, and gladden me in spite of my
common sense, which whispers that they may mean nothing. Do not build
castles for me that may have their existence only _en Espagne_."

"They seem very bright castles," observes Florence wistfully.

"A bad omen. 'All that's bright must fade,' sings the poet. And now to
speak of yourself. You enjoyed yourself?"

"Of course--" mechanically.

"Ah, yes; I was glad to see you had made it up with poor Arthur
Dynecourt!"

"How?" demands Florence, turning upon her quickly.

"I saw you dancing with him, dearest; I was with Sir Adrian at the time,
and from something he said, I think he would be rather pleased if you
could bring yourself to reward poor Arthur's long devotion."

"Sir Arthur said that? He discussed me with you?"

"Just in passing, you understand. He told me too that you were somewhat
unhappy in the earlier part of the evening, and that he had to stay a
considerable time with you to restore you to calmness. He is always so