“Who did you say? What did you call that lady?” The answer was inaudible. But Florence, in passionate anger that her name should be repeated by the lips of the vile pander to his master’s vices, clenched her hands, and wished herself a man, that she might punish his insolence as it merited. Then a feeling of annoyance at her father’s thoughtlessness in exposing her to such rudeness came across her; but that was quickly forgotten as she recollected how utterly her errand had failed, and the disappointment he would suffer in consequence. Pausing and retracing her steps, she looked up at the brightly lighted windows, and began to ask herself if she had been sufficiently urgent in her efforts to see the lieutenant. As she thought this, some one came from the house. It was the stranger; and, ashamed to have been seen by any one lingering there, Florence hurried away, nor relaxed her quick pace till, with sinking heart, she entered the dull street where her father was anxiously awaiting her. CHAPTER VI. SHATTERED HOPES. It would be as useless as unpleasant to dilate on Mr. Heriton’s disappointment and anger when Florence related the issue of her visit to Lieutenant Mason. He had anticipated so much from the interview that his vexation was excessive. Perhaps he scarcely acknowledged to himself the whole of the motives which influenced him when he insisted that his daughter should be the bearer of his note; but certain it is that he had secretly hoped much from the effect that he expected Florence’s beauty and grace would have upon the gay and dissipated lieutenant. His angry speeches, full of childish petulance, were heard in pitying silence, for Florence clearly saw what the end must be, and in her deep compassion for the utter wreck of his hopes forgot her annoyance at the folly with which he had suffered himself to be duped by every knave with whom he came in contact. But her forbearing affection would not calm his restless misery, and when two days elapsed without Lieutenant Mason fulfilling his promise of calling or writing, Mr. Heriton took to his bed, worn out with suspense and anxiety. “You must go to him again, my darling,” he said imploringly, as Florence stood by his bedside, trying to soothe him into a calmer mood. “Don’t draw back and look at me so! I must know how I am situated with him. If I were but young and strong as I used to be, I would take him by the throat and compel him to refund the money. Go to him, Florence. He is making thousands by this company; he has acknowledged as much more than once; and our pitiful hundreds are nothing in his eyes. Go and bid him return them. I know of a better investment, and you shall yet have your legacy doubled, my poor child.” “Dear papa, have patience!” pleaded his daughter. “He may come yet. If not, were it not better to submit ourselves to the loss?”