The Claverings

think she is right, though if I were her I should long to have it over.” That was Florence’s judgment in the matter. Harry sat between them, like a sheep as he was, very meekly⁠—not without some enjoyment of his sheepdom, but still feeling that he was a sheep. At half-past eight he started up, having already been told that a cab was waiting for him at the door. He pressed Cecilia’s hand as he went, indicating his feeling that he had before him an affair of some magnitude, and then of course had a word or two to say to Florence in private on the landing. Oh, those delicious private words, the need for which comes so often during those short halcyon days of one’s lifetime! They were so pleasant that Harry would fain have returned to repeat them after he was seated in his cab; but the inevitable wheels carried him onwards with cruel velocity, and he was in Bolton Street before the minutes had sufficed for him to collect his thoughts.

Lady Ongar, when he entered the room, was sitting in her accustomed chair, near a little worktable which she always used, and did not rise to meet him. It was a pretty chair, soft and easy, made with a back for lounging, but with no arms to impede the circles of a lady’s hoop. Harry knew the chair well and had spoken of its graceful comfort in some of his visits to Bolton Street. She was seated there when he entered; and though he was not sufficiently experienced in the secrets of feminine attire to know at once that she had dressed herself with care, he did perceive that she was very charming, not only by force of her own beauty, but by the aid also of her dress. And yet she was in deep mourning⁠—in the deepest mourning; nor was there anything about her of which complaint might fairly be made by those who do complain on such subjects. Her dress was high round her neck, and the cap on her head was indisputably a widow’s cap; but enough of her brown hair was to be seen to tell of its rich loveliness; and the black dress was so made as to show the full perfection of her form; and with it all there was that graceful feminine brightness that care and money can always give, and which will not come without care and money. It might be well, she had thought, to surrender her income, and become poor and dowdy hereafter, but there could be no reason why Harry Clavering should not be made to know all that he had lost.

“Well, Harry,” she said, as he stepped up to her and took her offered hand. “I am glad that you have come that I may congratulate you. Better late than never; eh, Harry?”

How was he to answer her when she spoke to him in this strain? “I hope it is not too late,” he said, hardly knowing what the words were which were coming from his mouth.

“Nay; that is for you to say. I can do it heartily, Harry, if you mean that. And why not? Why should I not wish you happy? I have always liked you⁠—have always wished for your happiness. You believe that I am sincere when I congratulate you;⁠—do you not?”

“Oh, yes; you are always sincere.”

“I have always been so to you. As to any sincerity beyond that we need say nothing now. I have always been your good friend⁠—to the best of my ability. Ah, Harry; you do not know how much I have thought of your welfare; how much I do think of it. But never mind that. Tell me something now of this Florence Burton of yours. Is she tall?” I believe that Lady Ongar, when she asked this question, knew well that Florence was short of stature.

“No; she is not tall,” said Harry.

“What⁠—a little beauty? Upon the whole I think I agree with your taste. The most lovely women that I have ever seen have been small, bright, and perfect in their proportions. It is very rare that a tall woman has a perfect figure.” Julia’s own figure was quite perfect. “Do you remember Constance Vane? Nothing ever exceeded her beauty.” Now Constance Vane⁠—she at least who had in those days been Constance Vane, but who now was the stout mother of two or three children⁠—had been a waxen doll of a girl, whom Harry had known, but had neither liked nor admired. But she was highly bred, and belonged to the cream of English fashion; she had possessed a complexion as pure in its tints as are the interior leaves of a blush rose⁠—and she had never had a thought in her head, and hardly ever a word on her lips. She and Florence Burton were as poles asunder in their differences. Harry felt this at once, and had an indistinct notion that Lady Ongar was as well aware of the fact as was he himself. “She is not a bit like Constance Vane,” he said.

“Then what is she like? If she is more beautiful than what Miss Vane used to be, she must be lovely indeed.”

“She has no pretensions of that kind,” said Harry, almost sulkily.

“I have heard that she was so very beautiful!” Lady Ongar had never heard a word about Florence’s beauty;⁠—not a word. She knew nothing personally of Florence beyond what Mrs. Burton had told her. But who will not forgive her the little deceit that was necessary to her little revenge?

“I don’t know how to describe her,” said Harry. “I hope the time may soon come when you will see her, and be able to judge for yourself.”

“I hope so too. It shall not be my fault if I do not like her.”

“I do not think you can fail to like her. She is very clever, and that will go further with you than mere beauty. Not but what I think