It was while thus they sat, the low voice of Ernest, tranquil yet half trembling with the emotions he sought to restrain--sometimes sobering, sometimes yet more elevating, the thoughts of Florence, that Lord Vargrave was announced, and Lumley Ferrers, who had now succeeded to that title, entered the room. It was the first time that Florence had seen him since the death of his uncle--the first time Maltravers had seen him since the evening so fatal to Florence. Both started--Maltravers rose and walked to the window. Lord Vargrave took the hand of his cousin and pressed it to his lips in silence, while his looks betokened feelings that for once were genuine. "You see, Lumley, I am resigned," said Florence, with a sweet smile. "I am resigned and happy." Lumley glanced at Maltravers, and met a cold, scrutinising, piercing eye, from which he shrank with some confusion. He recovered himself in an instant. "I am rejoiced, my cousin, I /am/ rejoiced," said he, very earnestly, "to see Maltravers here again. Let us now hope the best." Maltravers walked deliberately up to Lumley. "Will you take my hand /now/, too?" said he, with deep meaning in his tone. "More willingly than ever," said Lumley; and he did not shrink as he said it. "I am satisfied," replied Maltravers, after a pause, and in a voice that expressed more than his words. There is in some natures so great a hoard of generosity, that it often dulls their acuteness. Maltravers could not believe that frankness could be wholly a mask--it was an hypocrisy he knew not of. He himself was not incapable, had circumstances so urged him, of great crimes; nay, the design of one crime lay at that moment deadly and dark within his heart, for he had some passions which in so resolute a character could produce, should the wind waken them into storm, dire and terrible effects. Even at the age of thirty, it was yet uncertain whether Ernest Maltravers might become an exemplary or an evil man. But he could sooner have strangled a foe than taken the hand of a man whom he had once betrayed. "I love to think you friends," said Florence, gazing at them affectionately, "and to you, at least, Lumley, such friendship should be a blessing. I always loved you much and dearly, Lumley--loved you as a brother, though our characters often jarred." Lumley winced. "For Heaven's sake," he cried, "do not speak thus tenderly to me--I cannot bear it, and look on you and think--" "That I am dying. Kind words become us best when our words are approaching to the last. But enough of this--I grieved for your loss."