in spite of
everything, I would deem it a privilege to be allowed to befriend you
in any way."

"It is impossible," murmurs Florence, in a stifled tone.

"You mean you will not accept my help"--sadly. "So be it then. I have no
right, I know, to establish myself as your champion. There are others,
no doubt, whose happiness lies in the fact that they may render you a
service when it is in their power. I do not complain, however. Nay, I
would even ask you to look upon me at least as a friend."

"I shall always regard you as a friend," Florence responds in a low
voice. "It would be impossible to me to look upon you in any other
light."

"Thank you for that," says Adrian quickly. "Though our lives must of
necessity be much apart, it will still be a comfort to me to know that
at least, wherever you may be, you will think of me as a friend."

"Ah," thinks Florence, with a bitter pang, "he is now trying to let me
know how absurd was my former idea that he might perhaps learn to love
me!" This thought is almost insupportable. Her pride rising in arms, she
subdues all remaining traces of her late emotion, and, turning suddenly,
confronts him. Her face is quite colorless, but she can not altogether
hide from him the sadness that still desolates her eyes.

"You are right," she agrees. "In the future our lives will indeed
be far distant from each other, so far apart that the very tie of
friendship will readily be forgotten by us both."

"Florence, do not say that!" he entreats, believing in his turn that she
alludes to her coming marriage with his cousin. "And--and--do not be
angry with me; but I would ask you to consider long and earnestly before
taking the step you have in view. Remember it is a bond that once sealed
can never be canceled."

"A bond! I do not follow you," exclaims Florence, bewildered.

"Ah, you will not trust me; you will not confide in me!"

"I have nothing to confide," persists Florence, still deeply puzzled.

"Well, let it rest so," returns Adrian, now greatly wounded at her
determined reserve, as he deems it. He calls to mind all Mrs. Talbot had
said about her slyness, and feels disheartened. At least he has not
deserved distrust at her hands. "Promise me," he entreats at last,
"that, if ever you are in danger, you will accept my help."

"I promise," she replies faintly. Then, trying to rally her drooping
spirits, she continues, with an attempt at a smile, "Tell me that you
too will accept mine