but the heart of Adrian Dynecourt as well. She had come home to England
on the death of her father about two years ago; and, having no nearer
relatives alive, had been kindly received by her cousin, the Hon. Mrs.
Talbot, who was then living with her husband in a pretty house in
Mayfair.

Six months after Florence Delmaine's arrival, George Talbot had
succumbed to a virulent fever; and his widow, upon whom a handsome
jointure had been settled, when the funeral and the necessary law
worries had come to an end, had intimated to her young cousin that she
intended to travel for a year upon the Continent, and that she would be
glad, that is--with an elaborate sigh--she would be a degree less
miserable, if she, Florence, would accompany her. This delighted
Florence. She was wearied with attendance on the sick, having done most
of the nursing of the Hon. George, while his wife lamented and slept;
and, besides, she was still sore at heart for the loss of her father.
The year abroad had passed swiftly; the end of it brought them to Paris
once more, where, feeling that her time of mourning might be decently
terminated, Mrs. Talbot had discarded her somber robes, and had put
herself into the hands of the most fashionable dress-maker she could
find.

Florence too discarded mourning for the first time, although her father
had been almost two years in his quiet grave amongst the Hills; and,
with her cousin, who was now indeed her only friend, if slightly
uncongenial, decided to return to London forthwith.

It was early in May, and, with a sensation of extreme and most natural
pleasure, the girl looked forward to a few months passed amongst the
best of those whom she had learned under her cousin's auspices to regard