Maltravers, turning his eyes towards the spot to which Florence pointed,
saw Cesarini emerging from a lane, with a porter behind him carrying
some books and a trunk. The Italian, who was talking and gesticulating
as to himself, did not perceive them.

"Poor Castruccio! he seems leaving his lodging," thought Maltravers.
"By this time I fear he will have spent the last sum I conveyed to
him--I must remember to find him out and replenish his stores.--Do not
forget," said he aloud, "to see Cesarini, and urge him to accept the
appointment we spoke of."

"I will not forget it--I will see him to-morrow before we meet. Yet it
is a painful task, Ernest."

"I allow it. Alas! Florence, you owe him some reparation. He
undoubtedly once conceived himself entitled to form hopes the vanity of
which his ignorance of our English world and his foreign birth prevented
him from suspecting."

"Believe me, I did not give him the right to form such expectations."

"But you did not sufficiently discourage them. Ah, Florence, never
underrate the pangs of hope crushed, of love contemned."

"Dreadful!" said Florence, almost shuddering. "It is strange, but my
conscience never so smote me before. It is since I loved that I feel,
for the first time, how guilty a creature is--"

"A coquette!" interrupted Maltravers. "Well, let us think of the past