to speak lightly and in a bantering tone. He was too much in
earnest to take any notice of her tone.

"I was curious; I had reason to be," he replied. "I went home. Miss
Keys, Miss Sharston and others were in the hall. They were talking about
you, and Miss Sharston showed me one of your stories. I read it; we both
read it, and with keen curiosity."

"Was it the first or the second?" said Florence.

"The first story. It was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story I
thought you would have written."

Florence lowered her eyes.

"The style was remarkable and distinctive," he continued; "it was not
the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for
nothing. I went upstairs to Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir: I wanted to fetch a
book. I don't think I was anxious to read, but I was restless. The book
lay on Miss Keys's desk. On the desk also were some torn sheets of
paper. I picked up one mechanically."

"You read what was not meant for you to read!" said Florence, her eyes
flashing.

Trevor gave her a steady glance.

"I admit that I read a sentence--the sentence I have just shown you. I
will frankly tell you that I was surprised at it; I was puzzled by the
resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the
sentence. I put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. I don't
exactly know why I did it at the time, but I felt desperate. I was
taking a great interest in you. It seemed to me that if you did wrong I
was doing wrong myself. It seemed to me that if by any chance your soul
was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and
its god-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own
nature lowered. But I thought no special harm of you, although I was
troubled; and that night I learned for the first time that I was
interested in you because I loved you, because you were the first of all
women to me, and I----"

"Oh, don't," said Florence, "don't say any more." She turned away from
him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. Presently she
raised her eyes. He sat down on the sofa by her.

"Why don't you tell me everything, Florence?" he said, with great
tenderness in his tone.

"I cannot: it is too late. Think what you like of me! Suspect me as you
will! I do not think you would voluntarily injure me. I cannot give you
my confidence, for I----"

"Yes, dear, yes; don't trem