dozen times, thinking that the flavor of it was lost since it had been contaminated so often by that vile tongue.  But what concern was it of his?  Let her be Julia to whom she would, she could never be Julia again to him.  But she was his friend—­Lady Ongar, and he told himself plainly that his friend had been wrong in having permitted herself to hold any intimacy with such a woman as that.  No doubt Lady Ongar had been subjected to very trying troubles in the last months of her husband’s life, but no circumstances could justify her, if she continued to endorse the false cordiality of that horribly vulgar and evil-minded little woman.  As regarded the grave charges brought against Lady Ongar, Harry still gave no credit to them, still looked upon them as calumnies, in spite of the damning advocacy of Sophie and her brother; but he felt that she must have dabbled in very dirty water to have returned to England with such claimants on her friendship as these.  He had not much admired the count, but the count’s sister had been odious to him.  “I will be your friend.  Believe me.”  Harry Clavering stamped upon the pavement as he thought of the little Pole’s offer to him.  She be his friend!  No, indeed; not if there were no other friend for him in all London.

Sophie, too, had her thoughts about him.  Sophie was very anxious in this matter, and was resolved to stick as close to her Julie as possible.  “I will be his friend or his enemy; let him choose.”  That had been Sophie’s reflection on the matter when she was left alone.

Ten days after his visit in Mount Street, Harry received the note which Lady Ongar had written to him on the night of her arrival in London.  It was brought to Mr. Beilby’s office by her own footman early in the morning; but Harry was there at the time, and was thus able to answer it, telling Lady Ongar that he would come as she had desired.  She had commenced her letter “Dear Harry,” and he well remembered that when she had before written she had called him “Dear Mr. Clavering.”  And though the note contained only half-a-dozen ordinary words, it seemed to him to be affectionate, and almost loving.  Had she not been eager to see him, she would hardly thus have written to him on the very instant of her return.  “Dear Lady Ongar,” he wrote, “I shall dine at my club, and be with you about eight.  Yours always, H.C.”  After that he could hardly bring himself to work satisfactorily during the whole day.  Since his interview with the Franco-Polish lady he had thought a good deal about himself and had resolved to work harder and to love Florence Burton more devotedly than ever.  The nasty little woman had said certain words to him which had caused him to look into his own breast and to tell himself that this was necessary.  As the love was easier than the work, he began his new tasks on the following morning by writing a long and very affectionate letter to his own Flo, who was still staying at Clavering rectory—­a letter so long and so affectionate that Florence, in her ecstasy of delight, made Fanny read it, and confess that, as a love-letter, it was perfect.