There he found Florence and Mountjoy Scarborough. Mrs. Mountjoy was
still up-stairs in her bedroom, and was palpitating with fear as she
thought of the anger of the two combative lovers. To her belief, Harry
was, of the two, the most like to a roaring lion, because she had heard
of him that he had roared so dreadfully on that former occasion. But she
did not instantly go down, detained in her bedroom by the eagerness of
her fear, and by the necessity of resolving how she would behave when
she got there.
Harry, when he entered, stood a moment at the door, and then, hurrying
across the room, offered Scarborough his hand. "I have been so sorry,"
he said, "to hear of your loss; but your father's health was such that
you could not have expected that his life should be prolonged." Mountjoy
muttered something, but his mutterings, as Florence had observed, were
made in courtesy. And the two men had taken each other by the hand;
after that they could hardly fly at each other's throats in her
presence. Then Harry crossed to Florence and took her hand. "I never get
a line from you," he said, laughing, "but what you scold me. I think I
escape better when I am present; so here I am."
"You always make wicked propositions, and of course I scold you.
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