e other men have failed; that, even before he has
declared any love for you, you have, in spite of your pride, given all
your affection to him?"

"You insult me," cries Florence, with quivering lips. She looks faint,
and is trembling visibly. If this man has read her heart aright, may
not all the guests have read it too? May not even Adrian himself have
discovered her secret passion, and perhaps despised her for it, as being
unwomanly?

"And more," goes on Dynecourt, exulting in the torture he can see he is
inflicting; "though you thrust from you an honorable love for one that
lives only in your imagination, I will tell you that Sir Adrian has
other views, other intentions. I have reason to know that, when he
marries, the name of his bride will not be Florence Delmaine."

"Leave me, sir," cries Florence, rousing herself from her momentary
weakness, and speaking with all her old fire, "and never presume to
address me again. Go!"

She points with extended hand to the door at the lower end of the
gallery. So standing, with her eyes strangely bright, and her perfect
figure drawn up to its fullest height, she looks superb in her
disdainful beauty.

Dynecourt, losing his self-possession as he gazes upon her, suddenly
flings himself at her feet and catches her dress in his hands to detain
her.

"Have pity on me," he cries imploringly; "it is my unhappy love for
you that has driven me to speak thus! Why is Adrian to have all, and I
nothing? He has title, lands, position--above and beyond everything, the
priceless treasure of your love, whilst I am bankrupt in all. Show me
some mercy--some kindness!"

They are both so agitated that they fail to hear the sound of
approaching footsteps.

"Release me, sir," cries Florence imperiously.

"Nay; first answer me one question," entreats Dynecourt. "Do you love my
cousin?"

"I care nothing for Sir Adrian!" replies Florence distinctly, and in a
somewhat raised tone, her self-pride being touched to the quick.

Two figures who have entered the gallery by the second door at the upper
end of it, hearing these words uttered in an emphatic tone, start and
glance at the _tableau_ presented to their view lower down. They
hesitate, and, even as they do so, they can see Arthur Dynecourt seize
Florence Delmaine's hand, and, apparently unrebuked, kiss it
passionately.

"Then I shall hope still," he says in a low but impressive voice, at
which the two who have just entered turn and bea