as
Calvert expected, that nothing had changed in his absence--indeed what
was there to change--so long as the family at the villa remained in the
cottage. All was to Calvert as he left it.

Apologising to his friend for a brief absence, he took boat and crossed
the lake. It was just as they had sat down to tea that he entered the
drawing-room.

If there was some constraint in the reception of him, there was that
amount of surprise at his appearance that half masked it "You have been
away, Mr. Calvert?" asked Miss Grainger.

"Yes," said he, carelessly, "I got a rambling fit on me, and finding
that Loyd had started for England, I grew fidgety at being alone, so
I went up to Milan, saw churches and galleries, and the last act of a
ballet; but, like a country mouse, got home-sick for the hard peas and
the hollow tree, and hurried back again."

After some careless talk of commonplaces he managed at last to secure
the chair beside Florence's sofa, and affected to take an interest in
some work she was engaged at. "I have been anxious to see you and speak
to you, Florry," said he, in a low tone, not audible by the others.
"I had a letter from Loyd, written just before he left. He has told me
everything."

She only bent down her head more deeply over her work, but did not
speak.

"Yes; he was more candid than you," continued he. "He said you were
engaged--that is--that you had owned to him that you liked him, and that
when the consent he hoped for would be obtained, you would be married."

"How came he to write this to _you?_" said she, with a slight tremor in
her voice.

"In this wise," said he, calmly. "He felt that he owed me an apology for
something that had occurred between us on that morning; and, when making
his excuses, he deemed he could give no better proof of frankness than
by this avowal. It was, besides, an act of fairness towards one who,
trusting to his own false light, might have been lured to delusive
hopes."

"Perhaps so," said she, coldly.

"It was very right of him, very proper."

She nodded.

"It was more--it was generous."

"He _is_ generous," said she, warmly.

"He had need be."

"How do you mean, that he had need be?" asked she, eagerly.

"I mean this--that he will require every gift he has, and every grace,
to outbalance the affection which I bear you--which I shall never cease
to bear you. You prefer him. Now, you may regard me how you will--I will
not consent to believe myself be