ght that probably Mrs. Talbot has told Florence of his discovery of
her attachment to Arthur, and that she dreads his taxing her with her
duplicity, and so makes strenuous efforts to keep herself apart from
him. They have already drifted so far apart that to-night, when the play
has come to an end, and Florence has retired from the dressing-room, Sir
Adrian does not dream of approaching her to offer the congratulations on
her success that he would have showered upon her in a happier hour.

Florence, feeling lonely and depressed, having listlessly submitted
to her maid's guidance and changed her stage gown for a pale blue
ball-dress of satin and pearls--as dancing is to succeed the earlier
amusement of the evening--goes silently down-stairs, but, instead of
pursuing her way to the ball-room, where dancing has already commenced,
she turns aside, and, entering a small, dimly lighted antechamber, sinks
wearily upon a satin-covered lounge.

From a distance the sweet strains of a German waltz come softly to her
ears. There is deep sadness and melancholy in the music that attunes
itself to her own sorrowful reflections. Presently the tears steal down
her cheeks. She feels lonely and neglected, and, burying her head in the
cushions of the lounge, sobs aloud.

She does not hear the hasty approach of footsteps until they stop close
beside her, and a voice that makes her pulses throb madly says, in deep
agitation--

"Florence--Miss Delmaine--what has happened? What has occurred to
distress you?"

Sir Adrian is bending over her, evidently in deep distress himself. As
she starts, he places his arm round her and raises her to a sitting
posture; this he does so gently that, as she remembers all she has
heard, and his cousin's assurance that he has almost pledged himself
to another, her tears flow afresh. By a supreme effort, however, she
controls herself, and says, in a faint voice--

"I am very foolish; it was the heat, I suppose, or the nervousness of
acting before so many strangers, that has upset me. It is over now. I
beg you will not remember it, Sir Adrian, or speak of it to any one."

All this time she has not allowed herself to glance even in his
direction, so fearful is she of further betraying the mental agony
she is enduring.

"Is it likely I should speak of it!" returns Sir Adrian reproachfully.
"No; anything connected with you shall be sacred to me. But--pardon
me--I still think you are in grief, and, believe me,