“The promises made by our guest, Mr. Dormer, are not supposed to be binding on Mr. Aylwinne,” answered Florence haughtily. “Since when has he thought proper to remember them?” “Always. Never has a word spoken in that last interview with Mrs. Heriton left my memory, although the hopes she permitted me to cherish you have destroyed.” Astonished and confounded, Florence looked at him inquiringly. What did he--what could he mean? He did not seem in any haste to explain himself, and with increasing stateliness she said: “Pardon me, sir, if I remind you that such retrospection is as painful as unpleasant. And rest assured I should never have provoked it by coming to Orwell Court had I known whom I should recognize in its owner.” Bowing slightly, she moved toward the door; but ere she reached it Mr. Aylwinne, in great agitation, placed himself before her. “Miss Heriton, what am I to understand by this? Is it--can it be possible that you did not know me?” There was such intense earnestness in his manner that Florence faltered something about the lapse of time and the change in his appearance, and yet more in his name. “Yes, yes--I am aware of all this. But Mr. Heriton knew that I had assumed my uncle’s name. I wrote to him both before and after leaving India.” “I did not see those letters,” said Florence, with some reluctance. “You did not?” he cried excitedly. “But they contained others for you. Surely--surely Mr. Heriton did not withhold those!” Florence could not speak a word that reproached her father’s memory, but her silence was sufficient reply. Mr. Aylwinne struck his hands together and paced the room in great disorder. “It was cruel--it was dishonorable! Yes, it was dishonorable! How dared he use me so?” “Hush, sir! You are speaking of my father!” said Florence, whose hand was now on the door, though she felt unwilling to leave him without further explanation. “Forgive me!” he exclaimed, leading her gently back to the fireplace. “Forgive me! I know I am scarcely justified in saying this before you; but now that I know so much I must be fully satisfied. Were you aware that Mr. Heriton answered my last letter?” Florence murmured a negative, and then looked at him eagerly. “Answered it in his name and yours--answered it as though it was your wish that guided his pen.” While her eyes fell consciously beneath the steady gaze of his, he went on: “You did not know this. I see it all now, now that it is too late--too late! Florence, as soon as a brightening fortune warranted the act, I asked Mr. Heriton for your hand. I received a curt and decided refusal. The words are still engraven on my memory. ‘Miss Heriton regretted that Mr. Dormer should have imagined her so foolishly romantic as to remember anything connected with Mr. Dormer’s visit to Heriton Priory, except that she did her best to amuse her father’s guest.’ And the letter concluded with a definite assurance that Miss Heriton’s hand was already disposed of.”