"And is this the proud Florence Lascelles?"

"No,--it is the humbled Florence Lascelles. I have done with
pride--speak to me!"

"Ah, what a treasure is such a heart! How can he throw it away?"

"Does he deny?"

"He denies nothing--he expresses himself rejoiced to have escaped--such
was his expression--a marriage in which his heart never was engaged. He
is unworthy of you--forget him."

Florence shivered, and as Ferrers drew her arm in his own, her ungloved
hand touched his, and the touch was like that of ice.

"What will the servants think?--what excuse can we make?" said Ferrers,
when they stood beneath the porch. Florence did not reply; but as the
door opened, she said softly,--

"I am ill--ill," and clung to Ferrers with that unnerved and heavy
weight which betokens faintness.

The light glared on her--the faces of the lacqueys betokened their
undisguised astonishment. With a violent effort, Florence recovered
herself, for she had not yet done with pride, swept through the hall
with her usual stately step, slowly ascended the broad staircase, and
gained the solitude of her own room, to fall senseless on the floor.