“Fortunately,” replied Maria, laughing, “it will not long be yours.”
“That’s true,” answered Florentina, sighing deeply. “The count returns from his travels to-morrow, in the hope of soon conducting me to the altar.”
“Merely in the hope?” replied Maria: “the mysterious manner in which you uttered these words, leads me to apprehend you mean to frustrate those hopes.”
“I? But how frequently in this life does hope prove only an untimely flower?”
“My dear Florentina,” said Maria, embracing her, “for some time past my sister and I have vainly attempted to account for your lost gaiety; and have been tormented with the idea, that possibly family reasons have induced you, contrary to your wishes, to consent to this marriage which is about to take place.”
“Family reasons! Am I not then the last of our house; the only remaining one, whom the tombs of my ancestors have not as yet enclosed? And have I not for my Ernest that ardent affection which is natural to my time of life? Or do you think me capable of such duplicity, when I have so recently depicted to you, in the most glowing colours, the man of my heart’s choice?”
“What then am I to believe?” inquired Maria.
