“And I wanted to ask you about the pictures to-morrow?  You said, perhaps you would go to-morrow—­perhaps not.”

Clavering had found himself to be somewhat awkwardly situated while Madam Gordeloup was thus explaining the causes of her having come unannounced into the room; as soon, therefore, as he found it practicable, he took his leave.  “Julia,” he said, “as Madam Gordeloup is with you, I will now go.”

“But you will let me see you soon?”

“Yes, very soon; that is, as soon as I return from Clavering.  I leave town early to-morrow morning.”

“Good-by then,” and she put out her hand to him frankly, smiling sweetly on him.  As he felt the warm pressure of her hand he hardly knew whether to return it or reject it.  But he had gone too far now for retreat, and he held it firmly for a moment in his own.  She smiled again upon him, oh! so passionately, and nodded her head at him.  He had never, he thought, seen a woman look so lovely, or move light of heart.  How different was her countenance now from that she had worn when she told him, earlier on that fatal evening, of all the sorrows that made her wretched!  That nod of hers said so much.  “We understand each other now—­do we not?  Yes; although this spiteful woman has for the moment come between us, we understand each other.  And is it not sweet?  Ah! the troubles of which I told you you, you have cured them all.”  All that had been said plainly in her farewell salutation, and Harry had not dared to contradict it by any expression of his countenance.

“By, by, Mr. Clavering,” said Sophie.

“Good evening, Madam Gordeloup,” said Harry, turning upon her a look of bitter anger.  Then he went, leaving the two women together, and walked home to Bloomsbury Square—­not with the heart of a joyous, thriving lover.

Chapter XXV

The Day of the Funeral

Harry Clavering, when he had walked away from Bolton Street after the scene in which he had been interrupted by Sophie Gordeloup, was not in a happy frame of mind, nor did he make his journey down to Clavering with much comfort to himself.  Whether or not he was now to be regarded as a villain, at any rate he was not a villain capable of doing his villainy without extreme remorse and agony of mind.  It did not seem to him to be even yet possible that he should be altogether untrue to Florence.  It hardly occurred to him to think that he could free himself from the contract by which he was bound to her:  No; it was toward Lady Ongar that his treachery must be exhibited toward the woman whom he had sworn to befriend, and whom he now, in his distress, imagined to be the dearer to him of the two.  He should, according to his custom, have written to Florence a day or two before he left London, and, as he went to Bolton Street, had determined to do so that evening on his return home; but when he reached his rooms he found it impossible to write such a letter.  What could he say to her that would not be false?  How could he tell her that he loved her, and speak as he was wont to do of his impatience, after that which had just occurred in Bolton Street?