Mr. Anderson took up his hat and rushed to the door.  Then he returned for a moment.  “God bless you, Miss Mountjoy!” he said.  “In spite of the cruelty of that suggestion, I must bid God bless you.”  And then he was gone.  About a week afterward M. Grascour appeared upon the scene with precisely the same intention.  He, too, retained in his memory a most vivid recollection of the young lady and her charms.  He had heard that Captain Scarborough had inherited Tretton, and had been informed that it was not probable that Miss Florence Mountjoy would marry her cousin.  He was somewhat confused in his ideas, and thought, that were he now to re-appear on the scene there might still be a chance for him.  There was no lover more unlike Mr. Anderson than M. Grascour.  Not even for Florence Mountjoy, not even to own her, would he go to Kamtchatka; and were he not to see her he would simply go back to Brussels.  And yet he loved her as well as he knew how to love any one, and, would she have become his wife, would have treated her admirably.  He had looked at it all round, and could see no reason why he should not marry her.  Like a persevering man, he persevered; but as he did so, no glimmering of an idea of Kamtchatka disturbed him.

But from this farther trouble Mrs. Mountjoy was able to save her daughter.  M. Grascour made his way into Mrs. Mountjoy’s presence, and there declared his purpose.  He had been sent over on some question connected with the literature of commerce, and had ventured to take the opportunity of coming down to Cheltenham.  He hoped that the truth of his affection would be evinced by the journey.  Mrs. Mountjoy had observed, while he was making his little speech, how extremely well brushed was his hat.  She had observed, also, that poor Mr. Anderson’s hat was in such a condition as almost to make her try to smooth it down for him.  “If you make objection to my hat, you should brush it yourself,” she had heard Harry say to Florence, and Florence had taken the hat, and had brushed it with fond, lingering touches.

“M.  Grascour, I can assure you that she is really engaged,” Mrs. Mountjoy had said.  M. Grascour bowed and sighed.  “She is to be married this day week.”

“Indeed!”

“To Mr. Harry Annesley.”

“Oh-h-h!  I remember the gentleman’s name.  I had thought—­”

“Well, yes; there were objections, but they have luckily disappeared.”  Though Mrs. Mountjoy was only as yet happy in a melancholy manner, rejoicing with but bated joy at her girl’s joys, she was too loyal to say a word now against Harry Annesley.

“I should not have troubled you, but—­”

“I am sure of that, M. Grascour; and we are both of us grateful to you for your good opinion.  I know very well how high is the honor which you are doing Florence, and she will quite understand it.  But you see the thing is fixed; it’s only a week.”  Florence was said, at the moment, to be not at home, though she was up-stairs, looking at four dozen new pocket-handkerchiefs which had just come from the pocket-handkerchief merchant, with the letters F.A. upon them.  She had much more pleasure in looking at them than she would have had in listening to the congratulations of M. Grascour.