the human heart, and the smooth speciousness of his manner, to win, at
last, in the hand of Lady Florence, the object of his ambition. It was
not on her affection, it was on her pique, her resentment, that he
relied. "When a woman fancies herself slighted by the man she loves,
the first person who proposes must be a clumsy wooer indeed, if he does
not carry her away." So reasoned Ferrers, but yet he was ruffled and
disquieted; the truth must be spoken,--able, bold, sanguine, and
scornful as he was, his spirit quailed before that of Maltravers; he
feared the lion of that nature when fairly aroused: his own character
had in it something of a woman's--an unprincipled, gifted, aspiring, and
subtle woman's,--and in Maltravers--stern, simple, and masculine--he
recognised the superior dignity of the "lords of the creation;" he was
overawed by the anticipation of a wrath and revenge which he felt he
merited, and which he feared might be deadly.

While gradually, however, his spirit recovered its usual elasticity, he
came in the vicinity of Lord Saxingham's house, and suddenly, by a
corner of the street, his arm was seized: to his inexpressible
astonishment he recognised in the muffled figure that accosted him the
form of Florence Lascelles.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "is it possible?--You, alone in the streets,
at this hour, in such a night, too! How very wrong--how very
imprudent!"

"Do not talk to me--I am almost mad as it is: I could not rest--I could
not brave quiet, solitude,--still less, the face of my father--I could
not!--but quick, what says he?--What excuse has he? Tell me
everything--I will cling to a straw."