The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual
blushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a
deep, high-backed arm-chair. I asked:

"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs.
Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?"

"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless and I
wrote recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It
was the echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her
brother but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him."

She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh:

"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of
it. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; because I only
discovered my love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and
humiliation. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could not put
it to the test because of my father. Oh! I would not have been too
proud. But I had to spare poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect,
but I felt as though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry out.
Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my greatest grief. It was
distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That night
when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of
discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against
my own heart! I could not."

She stopped short, then impulsively:

"Truth will out, Mr. Marlow."

"Yes," I said.

She went on musingly.

"Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. For
months I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm
. . . "

Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. "No! There was no
harm in that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of life
then? Nothing. But Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a
letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards Roderick allowed
me to glance at it. I found in it this sentence: 'For years I tried to
make a friend of that girl; but I warn you once more that she has the
nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ' Adventuress!" repeated Flora
slowly. "So be it. I have had a fine adventure."

"It was fine, then," I said interested.

"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved,
untroubled, at peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, all