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Page 9
"Very well," says Florence; but her face still betrays dislike and
disinclination to the course recommended. "And, Dora, I don't think I
want my hair brushed any more, thanks; my head is aching so dreadfully."
This is a hint that she will be glad of Mrs. Talbot's speedy departure;
and, that lady taking the hint, Florence is soon left to her own
thoughts.
The next morning, directly after breakfast, she finds an opportunity to
tell Mr. Dynecourt that she will give him half an hour in the north
gallery to try over his part with her, as she considers it will be
better, and more conducive to the smoothness of the piece, to learn
any little mannerisms that may belong to either of them.
To this speech Dynecourt makes a suitable reply, and names a particular
hour for them to meet. Miss Delmaine, having given a grave assent to
this arrangement, moves away, as though glad to be rid of her companion.
A few minutes afterward Dynecourt, meeting Mrs. Talbot in the hall,
gives her an expressive glance, and tells her in a low voice that he
considers himself deeply in her debt.
CHAPTER III.
"You are late," says Arthur Dynecourt in a low tone. There is no anger
in it; there is indeed only a desire to show how tedious have been the
moments spent apart from her.
"Have you brought your book, or do you mean to go through your part
without it?" Florence asks, disdaining to notice his words, or to betray
interest in anything except the business that has brought them together.
"I know my part by heart," he responds, in a strange voice.
"Then begin," she commands somewhat imperiously; the very insolence of
her air only gives an additional touch to her extreme beauty and fires
his ardor.
"You desire me to begin?" he asks unsteadily.
"If you wish it."
"Do you wish it?"
"I desire nothing more intensely than to get this rehearsal over," she
replies impatiently.
"You take no pains indeed to hide your scorn of me," says Dynecourt
bitterly.
"I regret it, if I have at any time treated you with incivility,"
returns Florence, with averted eyes and with increasing coldness. "Yet
I must always think that, for whatever has happened, you have only
yourself to blame."
"Is it a crime to love you?" he demands boldly.
"Sir," she exclaims indignantly, and raising her beautiful eyes to his
for a moment, "I must request you will never speak to me of love. There
is neither sympathy nor common friendliness between us. You are well
aware with what sentiments I regard you."
"But, why am I alone to be treated with contempt?" he asks, with sudden
passion. "All other men of your acquaintance are graciously received by
you, are met with smiles and kindly words. Upon me alone your eyes rest,
when they deign to glance in my direction, with marked disfavor. All the
world can see it. I am signaled out from the others as one to be
slighted and spurned."
"Your forget yourself," says Florence contemptuously. "I have met you
here to-day to rehearse our parts for next Tuesday evening, not to
listen to any insolent words you may wish to address to me. Let us
begin"--opening her book. "If you know your part, go on."
"I know my part only too well; it is to worship you madly, hopelessly.
Your very cruelty only serves to heighten my passion. Florence, hear
me!"
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