She would not, however, complain when she had discovered what her mother was doing.

She asked such questions as appeared to be natural, and put up with replies which purposely withheld all information.

"Mamma, have you not settled on what day we shall start ?" "No, my dear." "Mamma, where are we going ?" "I cannot tell you as yet; I am by no means sure myself." "I shall be glad to know, mamma, what I am to pack up for use on the journey." "Just the same as you would do on any journey." Then Florence held her tongue, and consoled herself with thinking of Harry Annesley.
At last the day came, and she knew that she was to be taken to Boulogne.
Before this time she had received one letter from Harry, full of love, full of thanks,--just what a lover's letter ought to have been;--but yet she was disturbed by it.

It had been delivered to herself in the usual way, and she might have concealed the receipt of it from her mother, because the servants in the house were all on her side.

But this would not be in accordance with the conduct which she had arranged for herself, and she told her mother.