It was a slow, drizzling rain,--one of those unwholesome nights frequent in London towards the end of autumn. Ferrers, however, insensible to the weather, walked slowly and thoughtfully towards his cousin’s house. He was playing for a mighty stake, and hitherto the cast was in his favour, yet he was uneasy and perturbed. His conscience was tolerably proof to all compunction, as much from the levity as from the strength of his nature; and (Maltravers removed) he trusted in his knowledge of the human heart, and the smooth speciousness of his manner, to win, at last, in the hand of Lady Florence, the object of his ambition. It was not on her affection, it was on her pique, her resentment, that he relied. “When a woman fancies herself slighted by the man she loves, the first person who proposes must be a clumsy wooer indeed, if he does not carry her away.” So reasoned Ferrers, but yet he was ruffled and disquieted; the truth must be spoken,--able, bold, sanguine, and scornful as he was, his spirit quailed before that of Maltravers; he feared the lion of that nature when fairly aroused: his own character had in it something of a woman’s--an unprincipled, gifted, aspiring, and subtle woman’s,--and in Maltravers--stern, simple, and masculine--he recognised the superior dignity of the “lords of the creation;” he was overawed by the anticipation of a wrath and revenge which he felt he merited, and which he feared might be deadly. While gradually, however, his spirit recovered its usual elasticity, he came in the vicinity of Lord Saxingham’s house, and suddenly, by a corner of the street, his arm was seized: to his inexpressible astonishment he recognised in the muffled figure that accosted him the form of Florence Lascelles. “Good heavens!” he cried, “is it possible?--You, alone in the streets, at this hour, in such a night, too! How very wrong--how very imprudent!” “Do not talk to me--I am almost mad as it is: I could not rest--I could not brave quiet, solitude,--still less, the face of my father--I could not!--but quick, what says he?--What excuse has he? Tell me everything--I will cling to a straw.” “And is this the proud Florence Lascelles?” “No,--it is the humbled Florence Lascelles. I have done with pride--speak to me!” “Ah, what a treasure is such a heart! How can he throw it away?” “Does he deny?” “He denies nothing--he expresses himself rejoiced to have escaped--such was his expression--a marriage in which his heart never was engaged. He is unworthy of you--forget him.” Florence shivered, and as Ferrers drew her arm in his own, her ungloved hand touched his, and the touch was like that of ice. “What will the servants think?--what excuse can we make?” said Ferrers, when they stood beneath the porch. Florence did not reply; but as the door opened, she said softly,-- “I am ill--ill,” and clung to Ferrers with that unnerved and heavy weight which betokens faintness.