“Yes, sir; she has been good enough to promise to come, if you have no objection.”

“It is quite as well that they should know her early.  I only hope they will like her, as well as we like you.  Now I’ll say good-night—­and good-by.”  Then Harry went, and walking up and down the High Street of Stratton, thought of all that he had done during the past year.

On his arrival at Stratton, that idea of perpetual misery arising from blighted affection was still strong within his breast.  He had given all his heart to a false woman who had betrayed him.  He had risked all his fortune on one cast of the die, and, gambler-like, had lost everything.  On the day of Julia’s marriage he had shut himself up at the school—­luckily it was a holiday—­and had flattered himself that he had gone through some hours of intense agony.  No doubt he did suffer somewhat, for in truth he had loved the woman; but such sufferings are seldom perpetual, and with him they had been as easy of cure as with most others.  A little more than a year had passed, and now he was already engaged to another woman.  As he thought of this he did not by any means accuse himself of inconstancy or of weakness of heart.  It appeared to him now the most natural thing in the world that he should love Florence Burton.  In those old days he had never seen Florence, and had hardly thought seriously of what qualities a man really wants in a wife.  As he walked up and down the hill of Stratton Street, with the kiss of the dear, modest, affectionate girl still warm upon his lips, he told himself that a marriage with such a one as Julia Brabazon would have been altogether fatal to his chance of happiness.

And things had occurred and rumors had reached him which assisted him much in adopting this view of the subject.  It was known to all the Claverings—­and even to all others who cared about such things—­that Lord and Lady Ongar were not happy together, and it had been already said that Lady Ongar had misconducted herself.  There was a certain count whose name had come to be mingled with hers in a way that was, to say the least of it, very unfortunate.  Sir Hugh Clavering had declared, in Mrs. Clavering’s hearing, though but little disposed in general to make any revelations to any of the family at the rectory, “that he did not intend to take his sister-in-law’s part.  She had made her own bed, and she must lie upon it.  She had known what Lord Ongar was before she had married him, and the fault was her own.”  So much Sir Hugh had said, and, in saying it, had done all that in him lay to damn his sister-in-law’s fair fame.  Harry Clavering, little as he had lived in the world during the last twelve months, still knew that some people told a different story.  The earl, too, and his wife had not been in England since their marriage; so that these rumors had been filtered to them at home through a foreign medium.  During most of their time they had been in Italy, and now, as Harry knew, they were at Florence.  He had heard that Lord Ongar had declared his intention of suing for a divorce; but that he supposed to be erroneous, as the two were still living under the same roof.  Then he heard that Lord Ongar was ill; and whispers were spread abroad darkly and doubtingly, as though great misfortunes were apprehended.