"
"Mine?" exclaims Florence, laying down her brush, and looking, as she
feels, astonished. As a rule, the gentle Dora does not seek for wisdom
from her friends.
"Yes, dear, if you can spare me the time. Just five minutes will do, and
then you can return to your charming sketch. Oh"--glancing at it--"how
exactly like it is--so perfect; what a sunset, and what firs! One could
imagine one's self in the Fairies' Glen by just looking at it."
"It is not the Fairies' Glen at all; it is that bit down by Gough's
farm," says Florence coldly. Of late she has not been so blind to Dora's
artificialness as she used to be.
"Ah, so it is!" agrees Dora airily, not in the least discomposed at her
mistake. "And so like it too. You are a genius, dearest, you are really,
and might make your fortune, only that you have one made already for
you, fortunate girl!"
"You want my advice," suggests Florence quietly.
"Ah, true; and about something important too!" She throws into her whole
air so much coquetry mingled with assumed bashfulness that Florence
knows by instinct that the "something" has Sir Adrian for its theme, and
she grows pale and miserable accordingly.
"Let me hear it then," she urges, leaning back with a weary sigh.
"I have just received this letter," says Mrs. Talbot, taking from her
pocket the letter Arthur had given her, and holding it out to Florence,
"and I want to know how I shall answer it.
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