"You are late," says Arthur Dynecourt in a low tone. There is no anger in it; there is indeed only a desire to show how tedious have been the moments spent apart from her.

"Have you brought your book, or do you mean to go through your part without it?" Florence asks, disdaining to notice his words, or to betray interest in anything except the business that has brought them together.

"I know my part by heart," he responds, in a strange voice.

"Then begin," she commands somewhat imperiously; the very insolence of her air only gives an additional touch to her extreme beauty and fires his ardor.

"You desire me to begin?" he asks unsteadily.

"If you wish it."

"Do you wish it?"

"I desire nothing more intensely than to get this rehearsal over," she replies impatiently.

"You take no pains indeed to hide your scorn of me," says Dynecourt bitterly.

"I regret it, if I have at any time treated you with incivility," returns Florence, with averted eyes and with increasing coldness. "Yet I must always think that, for whatever has happened, you have only yourself to blame."

"Is it a crime to love you?" he demands boldly.

"Sir," she exclaims indignantly, and raising her beautiful eyes to his for a moment, "I must request you will never speak to me of love. There is neither sympathy nor common friendliness between us. You are well aware with what sentiments I regard you."