“I hate dancing.  How is a fellow to dance now?  I shall run against everybody.  I can see no one.  I should be sure to make a fool of myself.  No, I don’t want to dance even with you.  No, certainly not!—­let you dance with somebody else, and you engaged to me!  Well, if I must, of course I must.  I declare, Florence, you have not spoken a single word to me, though there is so much that you must have to say.  What have you got to say?  What a question to ask!  You must tell me.  Oh, you know what you have got to tell me!  The sound of it will be the sweetest music that a man can possibly hear.”

“You knew it all, Harry,” she whispered.

“But I want to hear it.  Oh, Florence, Florence, I do not think you can understand how completely I am beyond myself with joy.  I cannot dance again, and will not.  Oh, my wife, my wife!”

“Hush!” said Florence, afraid that the very walls might hear the sound of Harry’s words.

“What does it signify though all the world knew it?”

“Oh yes.”

“That I should have been so fortunate!  That is what I cannot understand.  Poor Mountjoy!  I do feel for him.  That he should have had the start of me so long, and have done nothing!”

“Nothing,” whispered Florence.

“And I have done everything.  I am so proud of myself that I think I must look almost like a hero.”

They had now got to the extremity of the room near an open window, and Florence found that she was able to say one word.  “You are my hero.”  The sound of this nearly drove him mad with joy.  He forgot all his troubles.  Prodgers, the policeman, Augustus Scarborough, and that fellow whom he hated so much, Septimus Jones;—­what were they all to him now?  He had set his mind upon one thing of value, and he had got it.  Florence had promised to be his, and he was sure that she would never break her word to him.  But he felt that for the full enjoyment of his triumph he must be alone somewhere with Florence for five minutes.  He had not actually explained to himself why, but he knew that he wished to be alone with her.  At present there was no prospect of any such five minutes, but he must say something in preparation for some future five minutes at a time to come.  Perhaps it might be to-morrow, though he did not at present see how that might be possible, for Mrs. Mountjoy, he knew, would shut her door against him.  And Mrs. Mountjoy was already prowling round the room after her daughter.  Harry saw her as he got Florence to an opposite door, and there for the moment escaped with her.  “And now,” he said, “how am I to manage to see you before you go to Brussels?”

“I do not know that you can see me.”

“Do you mean that you are to be shut up, and that I am not to be allowed to approach you?”

“I do mean it.  Mamma is, of course, attached to her nephew.”

“What, after all that has passed?”

“Why not?  Is he to blame for what his father has done?” Harry felt that he could not press the case against Captain Scarborough without some want of generosity.  And though he had told Florence once about that dreadful midnight meeting, he could say nothing farther on that subject.  “Of course mamma thinks that I am foolish.”