“What is false?  It is not false that I have deserved this.  I have done that which has made me a fitting companion for such a one as Sophie Gordeloup, though I have not done that which perhaps these people think.”

He paused again before he spoke, still standing near her on the rug.  “Lady Ongar—­” he said.

“Nay, Harry; not Lady Ongar when we are together thus.  Let me feel that I have one friend who can dare to call me by my name—­from whose mouth I shall be pleased to hear my name.  You need not fear that I shall think that it means too much.  I will not take it as meaning what it used to mean.”  He did not know how to go on with his speech, or in truth what to say to her.  Florence Burton was still present to his mind, and from minute to minute he told himself that he would not become a villain.  But now it had come to that with him, that he would have given all that he had in the world that he had never gone to Stratton.  He sat down by her in silence, looking away from her at the fire, swearing to himself that he would not become a villain, and yet wishing, almost wishing, that he had the courage to throw his honor overboard.  At last, half turning round toward her, he took her hand, or rather took her arm by the wrist till he could possess himself of her hand.  As he did so he touched her hair and her cheek, and she let her hand drop till it rested in his.  “Julia,” he said, “what can I do to comfort you?” She did not answer him, but looked away from him as she sat, across the table into vacancy.  “Julia,” he said again, “is there anything that will comfort you?” But still she did not answer him.

He understood it all as well as the reader will understand it.  He knew how it was with her, and was aware that he was at that instant false almost equally to her and to Florence.  He knew that the question he had asked was one to which there could be made a true and satisfactory answer, but that his safety lay in the fact that that answer was all but impossible for her to give.  Could she say, “Yes, you can comfort me.  Tell me that you yet love me, and I will be comforted?” But he had not designed to bring her into such difficulty as this.  He had not intended to be cruel.  He had drifted into treachery unawares, and was torturing her, not because he was wicked, but because he was weak.  He had held her hand now for some minute or two, but still she did not speak to him.  Then he raised it and pressed it warmly to his lips.

“No, Harry,” she said, jumping from her seat and drawing her hand rapidly from him; “no; it shall not be like that.  Let it be Lady Ongar again if the sound of the other name brings back too closely the memory of other days.  Let it be Lady Ongar again.  I can understand that it will be better.”  As she spoke she walked away from him across the room, and he followed her.

“Are you angry?” he asked her.

“No, Harry; not angry.  How should I be angry with you who alone are left to me of my old friends?  But, Harry, you must think for me, and spare me in my difficulty.”