“Some of your beaus, I suppose. Better read the letter and see,” the woman returned good-naturedly. Floy tore it open with nervous fingers, and read these words written in an elegant masculine hand: “DEAR LITTLE FLOY--I can not rest under the ban of your anger. “We used to be such good friends before that night at Suicide Place that I think you might forgive my folly when I was so drunk I did not realize what I was doing--nothing worse, after all, than trying to steal a kiss from the sweetest lips in the world. Many a pretty girl has forgiven a little fault like that in an adoring lover. “Ah, will you not forgive me and be friends again? “I am coming to call on you this evening to take you to the Garden Theater if you will accompany me. The play is ‘Trilby’--of course you’ve read that wonderful ‘Trilby’ that has made such a sensation--and I think you will enjoy it. Do not refuse, I beg of you. “Be ready when I call--I send you some roses for you to wear--and I promise you a charming time. “O. M. “Union League Club, New York, May 21st, 1895.” Floy stood motionless and pale to the lips, gazing at the letter as if it had been a Gorgon’s head and had turned her to stone. “Oh, Miss Fane, I hope it’s not bad news!” cried the landlady. Floy roused herself from her trance of indignation, and answered, angrily: “Mrs. Horton, if a gentleman calls for me this evening you will kindly tell him I am not at home. As for these flowers, you may have them or throw them out of the window.” “Thank you kindly, miss,” replied the woman, taking them down to ornament her stuffy little parlor. And there Otho Maury found them when he made his call. He crushed an oath under his black mustache as he asked, eagerly: “Is Miss Fane at home?” “Lor’, Mr. Maury, are you the one that sent her the flowers?” “Yes,” he replied, coldly. “Oh, sir, I’m sorry to tell you, but she burned your letter and gave me the roses, and told me to say she was not at home!” blurted out Mrs. Horton, in her amasement at Floy’s antagonism to this charming exquisite. Otho repressed his rage, and said, gratingly: “That’s strange. Wonder how I have offended the young woman? She used to be awfully fond of me at Mount Vernon. There’s some misunderstanding, and if I could see her one moment I know I could set it straight with the pretty little vixen. Mightn’t I just go up and knock at her door?” “I don’t see as there’d be any _great_ harm, sir. It’s the fourth flight, No. 19.” Floy had forgotten to lock her door after Mrs. Horton went, she was so angrily intent on setting a match to Otho’s letter. “How dare he persecute me so?” she cried, with flashing eyes as she watched it shrivel to ashes. The tea-bell rang, but she did not heed it. She was too excited to be conscious of hunger.