en the one year, appear to himself an altogether
impossible delay, the reader knows. How he at last contrived to have his
own way altogether, so that, as Florence told him, she was merely a ball
in his hand, the reader will have to know very shortly. But not a shade
of doubt had ever clouded Harry's mind as to his eventual success since
she had nodded to him at Mrs. Armitage's ball. Though this girl's love
had been so grand a thing to have achieved, he was quite sure from that
moment that it would be his forever.

With Mountjoy Scarborough there had never come such a moment, and never
could; yet he had been very confident, so that he had lived on the
assurance that such a moment would come. And the self-deportment natural
to her had been such that he had shown his assurance. He never would
have succeeded; but he should not the less love her sincerely. And when
the time came for him to think what he should do with himself, those few
days after his father's death, he turned to her as his one prospect of
salvation. If his cousin Florence would be good to him all might yet be
well. He had come by that time to lose his assurance. He had recognized
Harry Annesley as his enemy, as has been told often enough in these
pages. Harry was to him a hateful stumbling-block. And he had not been
quite as sure of her fidelity to another as Harry had been sure of it to
himself. Tretton might prevail. Trettons do so often prevail. And the
girl's mother was all on his side. So he had gone to Cheltenham, true as
the needle to the pole, to try his luck yet once again. He had gone to
Cheltenham, and there he found Harry Annesley. All hopes for him were
then over and he started at once for Monaco; or, as he himself told
himself, for the devil.

Among the lovers of Florence some memory may attach itself to poor Hugh
Anderson. He too had been absolutely true to Florence. From the hour in
which he had first conceived the idea that she would make him happy as
his wife, it had gone on growing upon him with all the weight of love,
He did not quite understand why he should have loved her so dearly, but
thus it was. Such a Mrs. Hugh Anderson, with a pair of horses on the
boulevards, was to his imagination the most lovely sight which could be
painted. Then Florence took the mode of disabusing him which has been
told, and Hugh Anderson gave the required promise. Alas, in what an
unfortunate moment had he done so! Such was his own thought. For though
he