"Well," she says, putting the paper from her as though heartily glad
to be rid of it, "it seems that Sir Adrian wishes to speak to you on
some subject interesting to you and him alone, and that he has chosen
the privacy of the lime-walk as the spot in which to hold your
_tete-a-tete_. It is quite a simple affair, is it not? Though really,
why he could not arrange to talk privately to you in some room in the
castle, which is surely large enough for the purpose, I can not
understand."
"Dear Sir Adrian is so romantic," says Dora coyly.
"Is he?" responds her cousin dryly. "He has always seemed to me the
sanest of men. Well, on what matter do you wish to consult me?"
"Dear Florence, how terribly prosaic and unsympathetic you are to-day,"
says Dora reproachfully; "and I came to you so sure of offers of love
and friendship! I want you to tell me if you think I ought to meet him
or not."
"Why not?"
"I don't know"--with a little simper. "Is it perhaps humoring him too
much? I have always dreaded letting a man imagine I cared for him,
unless fully, utterly, assured of his affection for me."
Florence colors again, and then grows deadly pale, as this poisoned barb
pierces her bosom.
"I should think," she says slowly, "after reading the letter you have
just shown me, you ought to feel assured."
"You believe I ought, really?"--with a fine show of eagerness.
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