“O, very well. I am much obliged to you. I shall value the relic very much.” Florence had meanwhile moved round the table, and was gazing earnestly into the crystal eyes. “What are you doing, Florence?” asked Ernest, sharply, for the scene was uncanny, and jarred upon him. “I?” she answered, with a little laugh; “I am seeking an inspiration. That face looks wise, it may teach me something. Besides, it is so like my own, I think she must be some far-distant ancestress.” “So she has noticed it too,” thought Ernest. “Put her back in the box, Jeremy,” said Mr. Cardus. “I must have an air-tight case made.” “I can do that,” said Jeremy, “by lining the old one with lead, and putting a glass front to it.” Jeremy set about putting the head away, touching it very gingerly. When he got it back into the oak case, he dusted it, and placed it upon a bracket that jutted from the oak panelling at the end of the room. “Well,” said Florence, “now that you have put your guardian angel on her pedestal, I think that we must be going home. Will any of you walk a little way with us?” Dorothy said that they would all come—that is, all except Mr. Cardus, who had gone back to his office. Accordingly they started, and as they did so, Florence intimated to Ernest that she wished to speak to him. He was alarmed and disappointed, for he was afraid of Florence, and wished to walk with Eva, and presumably his face betrayed what was in his mind to her. “Do not be frightened,” she said, with a slight smile; “I am not going to say anything disagreeable.” Of course he replied that he knew that she never could say anything disagreeable at any time; at which she smiled again the same faint smile, and they dropped behind. “Ernest,” she said presently, “I want to speak to you. You remember what happened between us two evenings ago on this very beach;” for they were walking home by the beach. “Yes, Florence, I remember,” answered Ernest. “Well, Ernest, the words I have to say are hard for a woman’s lips, but I must say them. I made a mistake, Ernest, in telling you that I loved you as I did, and in talking all the wild nonsense that I talked. I don’t know what made me do it—some foolish impulse, no doubt. Women are very curious, you know, Ernest, and I think that I am more curious than most. I suppose I thought I loved you, Ernest—I know I thought it when you kissed me; but last night, when I saw you at the Smythes’ dance, I knew that it was all a mistake, and that I cared for you—no more than you cared for me, Ernest. Do you understand me?” He did not understand her in the least, but he nodded his head, feeling vaguely that things were turning out very well for him.