"Positive. I know my own heart too well. I love another."

"Another?"

Florence had a wild fear for a moment that he was alluding to Bertha Keys. A desperate thought came into her brain.

"At any cost, I will open his eyes: I will tell him the truth," she thought.

Trevor had come nearer, and was bending forward and trying to take her hand.

"You are the one I love," he said. "How can I, who love you with all my heart and soul and strength, who would give my life for you, how can I think of anyone else? It does not matter whether you are the most amiable or the most unamiable woman in the world, Florence: you are the one woman on G.o.d's earth for me. Do you hear me, Florence; do you hear me? I love you; I have come to-day to tell you that I give my life to you. I put it into your hands. I didn't mean to speak, but the truth has been wrung from me. Do you hear me, Florence?"

Florence certainly did hear, but she did not speak. Trevor had taken her hand, and she did not withdraw it. She was stunned for a moment. The next instant there came over her, sweeping round her, entering her heart, filling her whole being, a delicious and marvellous ecstasy. The pain and the trouble vanished. The treachery, the deceit, and the fall she had undergone were forgotten. She only knew that, if Trevor loved her, she loved him. She was about to speak when her eyes fell for a moment on a page of the ma.n.u.script she had just written. Like a flash, memory came back.

It stung her cruelly as a serpent might sting. She sprang to her feet; she flung down his hand.

"You don't know whom you are talking to. If you knew me just as I am, you would unsay all those words; and, Mr. Trevor, you can never know me as I am, never, and I can never marry you."

"But do you love me? That is the point," said Trevor.

"I--do not ask me. No--if you must know. How can I love anybody? I am incapable of love. Oh, go, go! do go! I don't love you: of course I don't. Don't think of me again. I am not for you. Try and love Kitty, and make Mrs. Aylmer happy. Go; do leave me! I am unworthy of you, absolutely, utterly."

"But if I think differently?" said Trevor. He was very much troubled by her words; she spoke with such vehemence, and alluded to such extraordinary and to him impossible things, that he failed to understand her; then he said slowly: "You are stunned and surprised, but, darling, I am willing to wait, and my heart is yours. A man cannot take back his heart after he has given it, even though a woman does scorn it. But you won't be cruel to me; I cannot believe it, Florence. I will come again to-morrow and see you."

He turned without speaking to her again and left the room.

Florence never knew how she spent the rest of that day; but she had a dim memory afterwards that she worked harder during the succeeding hours than she had ever worked in her life before. Her brain was absolutely stimulated by what she had gone through, and she felt almost inclined to venture to write that Sunday-school paper which Tom Franks had so much desired.

She was to go out that evening with the Franks. She was now, although the London season had by no means begun, a little bit in request in certain literary circles; and Tom Franks, who had taken her in tow, was anxious to bring her as much forward as possible.

Edith and Tom were going to drive to a certain house in the suburbs where a literary lady, a Mrs. Simpson, a very fashionable woman, lived.

Florence was to be the lioness of the evening, and Edith came in early from her medical work to apprise her of the fact.

"You had better wear that pretty black lace dress, and here are some crimson roses for you," she said. "I bought them at the florist's round the corner; they will suit you very well. But I wish you would not lose all your colour. You certainly look quite f.a.gged out."

"On the contrary, I am not the least bit tired," said Florence. "I am glad I am going. I have finished the story for your brother and can post it first. I have had a hard day's work, Edith, and deserve a little bit of fun to-night."

"Now that I look at you, you don't seem as tired as usual," said Edith; "that is right. Tom was vexed last night. He says you work so hard that you are quite stupid in society. Try and allow people to draw you out.

If you make even one or two of those pretty little epigrammatic speeches with which your writing is full, you will get yourself talked of more than ever. I presume, writing the sort of things you do, that you are going in for fame, and fame alone. Well, my dear, at least so live that you may obtain that for which you are selling yourself."

"I am not selling myself. How dare you?" said Florence. Her whole manner was new; she had ceased to depreciate herself.

Edith left her, and Florence went into her bed-room and carefully made her toilet. Her eyes were soft as well as bright. The dress she wore suited her well; there was a flush of becoming colour in her cheeks. She joined Edith just as Franks drove up in his brougham. He ran upstairs, and was pleased to see that the two girls were ready.

"Come, that is nice," he said, gazing at Florence with an increased beating of his heart. He said to himself: "She is absolutely handsome.

She would suit me admirably as a wife. I may propose to her to-night if I have the chance."

He gave his arm to Florence with a certain chivalry which was by no means habitual to him, and the two girls and Franks went downstairs.

"There is to be a bit of a crush," he said, looking at Florence; "and, by the way, did I tell you who was to be present? You saw him to-day: Maurice Trevor. He is a great friend of Mrs. Simpson's, and he and his mother have been invited."

Florence's hand was still on Franks's arm when he spoke, and as he uttered the words "Maurice Trevor" she gave that arm an involuntary grip. He felt the grip, and a queer sensation went through him. He could not look into her face, but his suspicions were aroused. Why had she been so startled when Trevor's name was mentioned? He would watch the pair to-night. Trevor was not going to take Florence from him if he, Franks, wished for her: of that he was resolved.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

AT THE RECEPTION.

The guests were all interesting, and the room sufficiently large not to be overcrowded. Franks seemed to watch Florence, guarding her against too much intrusion, but at the same time he himself kept her amused. He told her who the people were. As he did so, he watched her face. She still wore that becoming colour, and her eyes were still bright. She had lost that heavy apathetic air which had angered Franks more than once.

He noticed, however, that she watched the door, and as fresh arrivals were announced her eyes brightened for an instant, and then grew perceptibly dull. He knew she was watching for Trevor, and he cursed Trevor in his heart.

"She is in love with him. What fools women are!" muttered Franks to himself. "If she married a man like that--a rich man with all that money could give--her literary career would be ended. I have had the pleasure of introducing her to the public; she is my treasure-trove, my one bright particular star. She shall not shine for anyone else. That great gift of hers shall be improved, shall be strengthened, shall be multiplied ten-thousandfold. I will not give her up. I love her just because she is clever: because she is a genius. If she had not that divine fire, she would be as nothing and worse than nothing to me. As it is, the world shall talk of her yet."

Presently Trevor and his mother arrived, and it seemed to Florence that some kind of wave of sympathy immediately caused his eyes to light upon her in her distant corner. He said a few words to his hostess, watched his mother as she greeted a chance acquaintance, and elbowed his way to her side.

"This is good luck," he said; "I did not expect to see you here to-night." He sat down by her, and Franks was forced to seek entertainment elsewhere.

Florence expected that after the way she had treated Trevor early that day he would be cold and distant; but this was not the case. He seemed to have read her agitation for what it was worth. Something in her eyes must have given him a hint of the truth. He certainly was not angry now.

He was sympathetic, and the girl thought, with a great wave of comfort: "He does not like me because I am supposed to be clever. He likes me for quite another reason: just for myself. But why did not he tell me so before--before I fell a second time? It is all hopeless now, of course; and yet is it hopeless? Perhaps Maurice Trevor is the kind of man who would forgive. I wonder!"

She looked up at him as the thought came to her, and his eyes met hers.

"What are you thinking about?" he said. They had been talking a lot of commonplaces; now his voice dropped; if he could, he would have taken her hand. They were as much alone in that crowd as though they had been the only people in the room.

"What are you thinking of?" he repeated.

"Of you," said Florence.

"Perhaps you are sorry for some of the things you said this morning?"

"I am sorry," she answered gravely, "that I was obliged to say them."

"But why were you obliged?"

"I have a secret; it was because of that secret I was obliged."

"You will tell it to me, won't you?"

"I cannot."

Trevor turned aside. He did not speak at all for a moment.

"I must understand you somehow," he said then; "you are surrounded by mystery, you puzzle me, you pique my curiosity. I am not curious about small things as a rule, but this is not a small thing, and I have a great curiosity as to the state of your heart, as to the state of your--"

"My morals," said Florence slowly; "of my moral nature--you are not sure of me, are you?"