Part 45 (2/2)

”I was curious; I had reason to be,” he replied. ”I went home. Miss Keys, Miss Sharston and others were in the hall. They were talking about you, and Miss Sharston showed me one of your stories. I read it; we both read it, and with keen curiosity.”

”Was it the first or the second?” said Florence.

”The first story. It was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story I thought you would have written.”

Florence lowered her eyes.

”The style was remarkable and distinctive,” he continued; ”it was not the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for nothing. I went upstairs to Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir: I wanted to fetch a book. I don't think I was anxious to read, but I was restless. The book lay on Miss Keys's desk. On the desk also were some torn sheets of paper. I picked up one mechanically.”

”You read what was not meant for you to read!” said Florence, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng.

Trevor gave her a steady glance.

”I admit that I read a sentence--the sentence I have just shown you. I will frankly tell you that I was surprised at it; I was puzzled by the resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the sentence. I put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. I don't exactly know why I did it at the time, but I felt desperate. I was taking a great interest in you. It seemed to me that if you did wrong I was doing wrong myself. It seemed to me that if by any chance your soul was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and its G.o.d-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own nature lowered. But I thought no special harm of you, although I was troubled; and that night I learned for the first time that I was interested in you because I loved you, because you were the first of all women to me, and I----”

”Oh, don't,” said Florence, ”don't say any more.” She turned away from him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. Presently she raised her eyes. He sat down on the sofa by her.

”Why don't you tell me everything, Florence?” he said, with great tenderness in his tone.

”I cannot: it is too late. Think what you like of me! Suspect me as you will! I do not think you would voluntarily injure me. I cannot give you my confidence, for I----”

”Yes, dear, yes; don't tremble so. Poor little girl, you will be better afterwards. I won't ask you too much; only tell me, sweetest, with your own lips that you love me.”

”I am not sweet, I am not dear, I am not darling. I am a bad girl, bad in every way,” said Florence. ”Think of me as you like. I dare not be near you: I dare not speak to you. Oh, yes, perhaps I _could_ have loved you: I won't think of that now. I am engaged to another man.”

”You engaged!” said Trevor. He sprang to his feet as if someone had shot him. He trembled a little; then he pulled himself together. ”Say it again.”

”I am engaged to Mr. Franks.”

”But you were not engaged last night?”

”No.”

”When did this take place?”

”Two hours ago; he came at nine--a minute past, I think. We became engaged; it is all settled. Good-bye; forget me.”

Florence still kept her hands behind her. She rose: her miserable tear-stained face and her eyes full of agony were raised for a moment to Trevor's.

”Do go,” she said; ”it is all over. I have accepted the part that is not good, and you must forget me.”

CHAPTER XLI.

THE LITTLE MUMMY IN LONDON.

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