sy," said Florence.

He looked at her in some surprise when she said that, but resolved to
take no notice. He had quick eyes and a keen intuition, and he saw at a
glance that Florence was uneasy and suffering, also that she was more or
less indifferent to the life on which she had entered, which ought to
have been so full of the keenest interest. She asked him to seat himself
and took a chair near.

"How are they all at Aylmer's Court?" she asked.

"When I left yesterday morning they were well," he replied. "Did you
know that your friend Miss Sharston was on a visit there?"

"Yes, I heard of it; Kitty wrote to me. Do you like Kitty, Mr. Trevor?"

"Of course I like her," he replied, and, remembering what was expected
of him by Mrs. Aylmer with regard to Kitty, the bronze on his cheeks
deepened.

Florence noticed the increase of colour, and her heart beat.

"I wonder if he does like her and if she likes him. I should not be
surprised; I ought to be glad," she thought. But she knew very well that
she was not glad, and she vaguely wondered why.

"I have come with a message from my mother," said Trevor, who was
watching her while her eyes were travelling towards the fire. He was
thinking how ill and worn she looked, and his heart was full of pity as
well as love, but he would not speak yet. He must wait; he must be sure
of her feelings before he committed himself.

"I have come with a message from my mother," he repeated. "I want you to
come back with me now. You enjoyed your last day at the cottage: it was
summer then. It is early winter now, but the heath is still beautiful.
Shall we go together, and after lunch have a walk on the heath?"

"I am very sorry, but I cannot go," replied Florence. She looked
longingly out of the window as she spoke. "No," she repeated; "I
cannot."

"But why not? You say you are not busy."

"In one sense I am not busy; but I have some work to do."

"Some of your literary work?"

Florence nodded, but did not speak.

"I have to copy something," she said, after a pause; "I have to send it
to the editor of the _Argonaut_; he is waiting."

"Do you know, I have only read one of your stories, the first which
appeared in the _Argonaut_? It was clever."

"I wish it had been idiotic," replied Florence. "Everyone says to me:
'Your story is clever.' I hate that story."

"I am delighted to hear you say so. I did not admire it myself. Of
course I saw that it was--"

"Don't say again th