She is indeed--listening with all her might to the master mind that has her in thrall.
"You will remember not to start when you meet me," he continues, issuing his commands with insolent assumption of authority over the dainty Dora, who, up to this, has been accustomed to rule it over others in her particular sphere, and who now chafes and writhes beneath the sense of slavery that is oppressing her. "You will meet me calmly, oblivious of the fact that I shall be clad in my cousin's light overcoat, the one of which Miss Delmaine was graciously pleased to say she approved yesterday morning."
His eyes light again with a revengeful fire as he calls to mind the slight praise Florence had bestowed in a very casual fashion on this coat. Every smile, every kindly word addressed by this girl to his cousin, is treasured up by him and dwelt upon in secret, to the terrible strengthening of the purpose he has in view.
"But if you should be seen--be marked," hesitates Dora faintly.
"Pshaw--am I one to lay my plans so clumsily as to court discovery on even the minutest point?" he interrupts impatiently. "When you meet me you will--but enough of this; I shall be there to meet you in the lime-walk, and after that you will take your cue from me."
"That is all you have to say?" asks Dora, anxious to quit his hated presence.
"For the present--yes. Follow my instructions to the letter, or dread the consequences. Any blunder in the performance of this arrangement I shall lay to your charge."
"You threaten, sir!" she exclaims angrily, though she trembles.
"Let it be your care to see that I do not carry out my threats," he retorts, with an insolent shrug.
The next day, directly after luncheon, as Florence is sitting in her own room, touching up an unfinished water-color sketch of part of the grounds round the castle--which have, alas, grown only too dear to her!--Dora enters her room. It is an embarrassed and significantly smiling Dora that trips up to her, and says with pretty hesitation in her tone-"Dearest Florence, I want your advice about something."
"Mine?" exclaims Florence, laying down her brush, and looking, as she feels, astonished. As a rule, the gentle Dora does not seek for wisdom from her friends.
"Yes, dear, if you can spare me the time. Just five minutes will do, and then you can return to your charming sketch. Oh"--glancing at it--"how exactly like it is--so perfect; what a sunset, and what firs! One could imagine one's self in the Fairies' Glen by just looking at it."