“Ah, Mr. Clavering, I am so glad to see you.  I was with Julie last night.  She was fagged, very much fagged; the journey, you know, and the business.  But yet so handsome!  And we talked of you.  Yes, Mr. Clavering; and I told her how good you had been in coming to me.  She said you were always good; yes, she did.  When shall you see her?”

Harry Clavering was a bad hand at fibbing, and a bad hand also at leaving a question unanswered.  When questioned in this way he did not know what to do but to answer the truth.  He would much rather not have said that he was going to Bolton Street that evening, but he could find no alternative.  “I believe I shall see her this evening,” he said, simply venturing to mitigate the evil of making the communication by rendering it falsely doubtful.  There are men who fib with so bad a grace and with so little tact that they might as well not fib at all.  They not only never arrive at success, but never even venture to expect it.

“Ah, this evening.  Let me see.  I don’t think I can be there to-night; Madame Berenstoff receives at the embassy.”

“Good afternoon,” said Harry, turning into Truefit’s, the hairdresser’s, shop.

“Ah, very well,” said Sophie to herself; “just so.  It will be better, much better.  He is simply one lout, and why should he have it all?  My God, what fools, what louts, are these Englishmen!” in having read Sophie’s thoughts so far, we will leave her to walk up the remainder of the arcade by herself.

I do not know that Harry’s visit to Truefit’s establishment had been in any degree caused by his engagement for the evening.  I fancy that he had simply taken to ground at the first hole, as does a hunted fox.  But now that he was there he had his head put in order, and thought that he looked the better for the operation.  He then went back to his club, and when he sauntered into the card-room one old gentleman looked askance at him, as though inquiring angrily whether he had come there to make fresh misery.  “Thank you; no—­I won’t play again,” said Harry.  Then the old gentleman was appeased, and offered him a pinch of snuff.  “Have you seen the new book about whist?” said the old gentleman.  “It is very useful—­very useful.  I’ll send you a copy if you will allow me.”  Then Harry left the room, and went down to dinner.

Chapter XVI

An Evening In Bolton Street

It was a little past eight when Harry knocked at Lady Ongar’s door.  I fear he had calculated that if he were punctual to the moment, she would think that he thought the matter to be important.  It was important to him, and he was willing that she should know that it was so.  But there are degrees in everything, and therefore he was twenty minutes late.  He was not the first man who has weighed the diplomatic advantage of being after his time.  But all those ideas went from him at once when she met him almost at the door of the room, and, taking him by the hand, said that she was “so glad to see him—­so very glad.  Fancy, Harry, I haven’t seen an old friend since I saw you last.  You don’t know how hard all that seems.”