have nothing but contempt. Once for all, I cannot,--I
will not."

Here the voice was broken with sobs. Fane had raised his head eagerly at
the commencement of the dialogue, but now, recollecting that we were
listeners, rose, and closed the door. I did not say a word on the
conversation we had just heard, for I felt out of patience with him for
his heartless flirtation; so, taking up a book on Italy, I looked over
the engravings for a little time, and then, Tommy having been conveyed
to the nursery in a state of rebellion, I reminded Fane of a promise he
had once made to accompany me to Rome the next winter, and asked him if
he intended to fulfil it.

"Really, my dear fellow, I cannot tell what I may possibly do next
winter; I hate making plans for the future. We may none of us be alive
then," said he, in an unusually dull strain for him: "I half fancy I may
exchange into some regiment going on foreign service. But _l'homme
propose_, you know. By the by, poor Castleton" (his elder brother) "is
very ill at Brussels."

"Yes. I was extremely sorry to hear it, in a letter I had from Vivian
this morning," I replied. "He is at Brussels also, and mentions a
_belle_ there, Lady Adeliza Fitzhowden, with whom, he says, the world is
associating _your_ name. Is it true, Fane?"

"_Les on dit font la gazette des fous!_" cried the captain, impatiently,
stroking Florence's little King Charles. "I saw Lady Adeliza at Paris
last January, but I would not marry her--no! not if there were no other
woman upon earth! I thought, Fred, really you were too sensible to
believe all the scandal raked up by that gossiping Vivian. I do hope you
have not been propagating his most unfounded report?" asked my gallant
friend, in quite an excited tone.

At this moment the ladies entered. Florence with her dark eyes looking
very sad under their long lashes, but they soon brightened when Fane
seated himself by her side, and began talking in a lower tone, and with
even more _tendresse_ than ever.

I had the pleasure of quite eclipsing Tom Cleaveland, I thought, as I
turned over the leaves of Mary's music, and looked unutterable things,
which, however, I fear were all lost, as Mary _would_ look only at the
notes of the piano, and I firmly believe never heard a word I said.

How Florence blushed as Fane whispered his soft good night; she looked
so happy, poor girl, and he, heartless demon, talked of going into
foreign service! By the by, what put that i