"Never mind," says Dora, afraid of having betrayed too much concern.
"It is really of no consequence. I only wanted it, because--well,
because"--with the simper that drives Florence nearly mad--"he wrote it."
"I shall tell my maid to look for it, and, if she finds it, you shall
have it this evening," responds Florence, with a slight contraction of
her brows that passes unnoticed.
To Florence's mortification, Arthur Dynecourt takes her in to dinner. On
their way across the hall from the drawing-room to the dining-room, he
presses the hand that rests so reluctantly upon his arm, and says, with
an affectation of the sincerest concern--
"You are not well; you are looking pale and troubled, and--pardon me if
I am wrong, but I think you have been crying."
"I must beg, sir," she retorts, with excessive _hauteur_, removing her
hand from his arm, as though his pressure had burned her--"I must beg,
you will not trouble yourself to study my countenance. Your doing so is
most offensive to me."
"To see you in trouble, and not long to help or comfort you is
impossible to me," goes on Dynecourt, unmoved by her scorn. "Are you
still dwelling on the past--on what is irrevocable? Have you had fresh
cause to remember it to-day?"
There is a gleam of malice in his eyes, but Florence, whose gaze is
turned disdainfully away from him, fails to see it.
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