thought you his rival, and it was just possible
you might, have reciprocated the sentiment."

"This is intolerable," cried he. Then hastily
checking his angry outburst, he added: "Why
should we grow warm, Florence dearest, over
a matter which cannot have but one aspect for
us both? It is of you, not of myself, I have
been thinking all this time. I simply begged
you to let me know what sort of relations existed
between you and Mr. Calvert that should prevent
you speaking of him to me."

"You said something about insisting. Now,
insisting is an ugly word. There is an air of
menace about it."

"I am not disposed to recal it," said he,
sternly.

"So much the better; at least it will save us
a world of very unpleasant recrimination, for I
refuse to comply."

"You refuse! Now let me understand you, for
this is too vital a point for me at least to make
any mistake about—what is it that you refuse?"

"Don't you think the tone of our present
discussion is the best possible reason for not
prolonging it?"

"No! If we have each of us lost temper, I
think the wisest course would be to recover
ourselves, and see if we cannot talk the matter
over in a better spirit."

"Begin then by unsaying that odious word."

"What is the word?"

"Insist! You must not insist upon anything."

"I'll take back the word if you so earnestly
desire it, Florence," said he, gravely;  but I
hope request will be read in its place."

"Now then, what is it you request? for I
frankly declare that all this time I don't rightly
understand what you ask of me."

"This is worse than I suspected," said he,
angrily, "for now I see that it is in the mere
spirit of defiance that you rejected my demand."

"Upon my word, sir, I believe it will turn out
that neither of us knew very much of the other."

"You think so?"

"Yes; don't you?"

He grew very pale, and made no answer,
though he twice seemed as if about to speak.

"I declare," cried she, and her heightened
colour and flashing eye showed the temper that
stirred her—"I declare that I think we shall
have employed all our lately displayed candour
to very little advantage if it does not carry us a
little further."

"I scarcely catch your meaning," said he, in a
low voice.

"What I meant was, that by a little further
effort of our frankness we might come to convey
to each other that scenes like these are not
pleasant, nor need they ever occur again."

"I believe at last I apprehend you," said he,
in a broken accent. "You desire that our
engagement should be broken off?"

She made no answer, but averted her head.

"I will do my best to be calm, Florence,"
continued he, "and I will ask as much of you.
Let neither of us sacrifice the prospect of a whole
life's happiness for the sake of a petty victory
in a very petty dispute. If, however, you are of
opinion——" he stopped, he was about to say
more than he had intended, more than he knew
how to say, and he stopped, confused and
embarrassed.

"Why don't you continue?" said she, with a
cold smile.

"Because l don't know what I was about to say."

"Then shall I say it for you?"

"Yes, do so."

"It was this, then, or at least to this purport:
If, you, Miss Florence Walter, are of opinion that
two people who have not succeeded in inspiring
each other with that degree of confidence that
rejects all distrust, are scarcely wise in entering
into a contract of which truthfulness is the very
soul and essence, and that, though not very
gallant on my part, as the man to suggest it, yet
in all candour, which here must take the place
of courtesy, the sooner the persons so placed
escape from such a false position the better."

"And part?" said he, in a hollow, feeble voice.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly, as though
to say that, or any similar word, will convey my
meaning.

"Oh, Florence, is it come to this? Is this to be
a last evening in its saddest, bitterest sense?"

"When gentlemen declare that they 'insist,'
I take it they mean to have their way," said she,
with a careless toss of her head.

"Good Heavens!" cried he, in a passion,
"have you never cared for me at all? or is your
love so little rooted that you can tear it from
your heart without a pang?"

"All this going back on the past is very
unprofitable," said she, coldly.

He was stung by the contemptuous tone even
more than by the words she used. It seemed
as though she held his love so lightly she would
not condescend to the slightest trouble to retain
it, and this too at a moment of parting.

"Florence!" said he, in a tone of deep melancholy,
"if I am to call you by that name for the
last time—tell me, frankly, is this a sudden
caprice of yours, or has it lain rankling in your
mind, as a thing you would conquer if you could,
or submit to, if you must?"

"I suspect it is neither one nor the other,"
said she, with a levity that almost seemed gaiety.
"I don't think I am capricious, and I know I
never harbour a long–standing grievance. I
really believe that it is to your own heart you
must look for the reasons of what has occurred
between us. I have often heard that men are
so ashamed of being jealous, that they'll never
forgive any one who sees them in the fit."

"Enough, more than enough," said he,
trembling from head to foot. "Let us part."

"Remember, the proposal comes from you."

"Yes, yes, it comes from me. It matters
whence it comes."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, it matters a great
deal, at least to me. I am not to bear the
reproaches of my aunt and my sister for a
supposed cruelty towards a man who has himself
repudiated our engagement. It would be rather hard
that I was to be deserted and condemned too."