Then, however, it came to his turn to dance, and he had a moment allowed to him to collect his thoughts.  By nothing that he could do or say could he prevent her going, and he could only use the present moment to the best purpose in his power.  He bethought himself then that he had never received from her a word of encouragement, and that such word, if ever to be spoken, should be forthcoming that night.  What might not happen to a girl who was passing the balmy Christmas months amid the sweet shadows of an Italian lake?  Harry’s ideas of an Italian lake were, in truth, at present somewhat vague.  But future months were, to his thinking, interminable; the present moment only was his own.  The dance was now finished.  “Come and take a walk,” said Harry.

“I think I will go to mamma.”  Florence had seen her mother’s eye fixed upon her.

“Oh, come, that won’t do at all,” said Harry, who had already got her hand within his arm.  “A fellow is always entitled to five minutes, and then I am down for the next waltz.”

“Oh no!”

“But I am, and you can’t get out of it now.  Oh, Florence, will you answer me a question,—­one question?  I asked it you before, and you did not vouchsafe me any answer.”

“You asked me no question,” said Florence, who remembered to the last syllable every word that had been said to her on that occasion.

“Did I not?  I am sure you knew what it was that I intended to ask.”  Florence could not but think that this was quite another thing.  “Oh, Florence, can you love me?” Had she given her ears for it she could not have told him the truth then, on the spur of the moment.  Her mother’s eye was, she knew, watching her through the door-way all the way across from the other room.  And yet, had her mother asked her, she would have answered boldly that she did love Harry Annesley, and intended to love him for ever and ever with all her heart.  And she would have gone farther if cross-questioned, and have declared that she regarded him already as her lord and master.  But now she had not a word to say to him.  All she knew was that he had now pledged himself to her, and that she intended to keep him to his pledge.  “May I not have one word,” he said,—­“one word?”

What could he want with a word more? thought Florence.  Her silence now was as good as any speech.  But as he did want more she would, after her own way, reply to him.  So there came upon his arm the slightest possible sense of pressure from those sweet fingers, and Harry Annesley was on a sudden carried up among azure-tinted clouds into the farthest heaven of happiness.  After a moment he stood still, and passed his fingers through his hair and waved his head as a god might do it.  She had now made to him a solemn promise than which no words could be more binding.  “Oh, Florence,” he exclaimed, “I must have you alone with me for one moment.”  For what could he want her alone for any moment? thought Florence.  There was her mother still looking at them; but for her Harry did not now care one straw.  Nor did he hate those bright Italian lakes with nearly so strong a feeling of abhorrence.  “Florence, you are now all my own.”  There came another slightest pressure, slight, but so eloquent from those fingers.