He was left sole heir to his uncle’s large property with the prospect¹ of soon succeeding, for though only fifty-four, John Linden looked at least ten years older, and was as feeble as many men past seventy.

 

Yet, as Curtis seated himself at the breakfast table an hour after Florence had left the house, he looked far from happy or triumphant².

 

One thing he had not succeeded in, the conquest of his cousin’s heart. Though he loved himself best, he was really in love with Florence, so far as he was capable of being in love with any one.

 

She was only half his age—scarcely that—but he persuaded himself that the match was in every way suitable.

 

He liked to fancy her at the head of his table, after the death of his uncle, which he anticipated in a few months at latest.

 

The more she appeared to dislike him, the more he determined³ to marry her, even against her will.

 

She was the only one likely to inherit John Linden’s wealth, and by marrying her he would make sure of it.

 

Yet she had been willing to leave the home of her youth, to renounce⁴ luxury for a life of poverty, rather than to marry him.

 

When he thought of this his face became set and its expression stern and determined.

 

“Florence shall yet be mine,” he declared, resolutely⁵. “I will yet be master of her fate, and bend her to my will. Foolish girl, how dare she match her puny⁷ strength against the resolute⁶ will of Curtis Waring?”

 

“Was there any one else whom she loved?” he asked himself, anxiously. No, he could think of none. On account of his uncle’s

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