Mrs. Skewton’s face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her of her difficulty.
"Edith, my dear," said Mrs. Skewton, "positively, I—stand a little more in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment."
Florence blushingly complied.
"You don’t remember, dearest Edith," said her mother, "what you were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years younger?"
"I have long forgotten, mother."
"For positively, my dear," said Mrs. Skewton, "I do think that I see a decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating young friend. And it shows," said Mrs. Skewton, in a lower voice, which conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished state, "what cultivation will do."
"It does, indeed," was Edith’s stern reply.
Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe ground, said, as a diversion:
"My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you please, my love."
Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs. Skewton’s ear.
"And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet," said Mrs. Skewton, detaining her hand, "that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and dote upon, is to be married to my dearest Edith this day week."
"I knew it would be very soon," returned Florence, "but not exactly when."
"My darling Edith," urged her mother, gaily, "is it possible you have not told Florence?"
"Why should I tell Florence?" she returned, so suddenly and harshly, that Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice.
Mrs. Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that her father was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be charmingly surprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the City, and had known nothing of Edith’s design, the execution of which, according to Mrs. Skewton’s expectation, would throw him into a perfect ecstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this; and her distress became so keen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had known how to frame an entreaty to be suffered to return home, without involving her father in her explanation, she would have hurried back on foot, bareheaded, breathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meeting his displeasure.
As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. She dared not approach a window, lest he should see her from the street. She dared not go upstairs to hide her emotion, lest, in passing out at the door, she should meet him unexpectedly; besides which dread, she felt as though she never could come back again if she were summoned to his presence. In this conflict of fears, she was sitting by Cleopatra’s couch, endeavouring to understand and to reply to the bald discourse of that lady, when she heard his foot upon the stair.
"I hear him now!" cried Florence, starting. "He is coming!"
Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully disposed, and who in her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature of
