to look forward, and have a pleasure in feeling that all my happiness is to come.  I know I am right in this.  Do write me one little line to say that you are not angry with your little girl.

I shall be quite ready for you by the 29th.  I got such a dear little note from Fanny the other day.  She says that you never write to them, and she supposes that I have the advantage of all your energy in that way.  I have told her that I do get a good deal.  My brother writes to me very seldom, I know; and I get twenty letters from Cecilia for one scrap that Theodore ever sends me.  Perhaps some of these days I shall be the chief correspondent with the rectory.  Fanny told me all about the dresses, and I have my own quite ready.  I’ve been bridesmaid to four of my own sisters, so I ought to know what I’m about.  I’ll never be bridesmaid to anybody again, after Fanny; but whom on earth shall I have for myself?  I think we must wait till Cissy and Sophy are ready.  Cissy wrote me word that you were a darling man.  I don’t know how much of that came directly from Cissy, or how much from Cecilia.

God bless you, dear, dearest Harry.  Let me have one letter before you come to fetch me, and acknowledge that I am right, even if you say that I am disagreeable.  Of course I like to think that you want to have me; but, you see, one has to pay the penalty of being civilized.  Ever and always your own affectionate: 

    Florence Burton.

Harry Clavering was very angry when he got this letter.  The primary cause of his anger was the fact that Florence should pretend to know what was better for him than he knew himself.  If he was willing to encounter life in London on less than four hundred a year, surely she might be contented to try the same experiment.  He did not for a moment suspect that she feared for herself, but he was indignant with her because of her fear for him.  What right had she to accuse him of wanting to be comfortable?  Had he not for her sake consented to be very uncomfortable at that old house at Stratton?  Was he not willing to give up his fellowship, and the society of Lady Ongar, and everything else, for her sake?  Had he not shown himself to be such a lover as there is not one in a hundred?  And yet she wrote and told him that it wouldn’t do for him to be poor and uncomfortable?  After all that lie had done in the world, after all that he had gone through, it would be odd if at this time of day, he did not know what was good for himself!  It was in that way that he regarded Florence’s pertinacity.

He was rather unhappy at this period.  It seemed to him that he was somewhat slighted on both sides—­or, if I may say so, less thought of on both sides than he deserved.  Had Lady Ongar remained in town, as she ought to have done, he would have solaced himself, and at the same time have revenged himself upon Florence, by devoting some of his spare hours to that lady.  It was Lady Ongar’s sudden departure that had made him feel that he ought to rush at once into marriage.  Now he had no consolation, except that of complaining to Mrs. Burton, and going frequently to the theatre.  To Mrs. Burton he did complain a great deal, pulling her worsteds and threads about the while, sitting in idleness while she was working, just as Theodore Burton had predicted that he would do.