as any in the kingdom, and therefore there was very much to be learned in the office at Stratton.  But Mr. Burton was not a rich man like his partner, Mr. Beilby, nor an ambitious man.  He had never soared Parliamentwards, had never speculated, had never invented, and never been great.  He had been the father of a very large family, all of whom were doing as well in the world, and some of them perhaps better, than their father.  Indeed, there were many who said that Mr. Burton would have been a richer man if he had not joined himself in partnership with Mr. Beilby.  Mr. Beilby had the reputation of swallowing more than his share wherever he went.

When the business part of the arrangement was finished Mr. Burton talked to his future pupil about lodgings, and went out with him into the town to look for rooms.  The old man found that Harry Clavering was rather nice in this respect, and in his own mind formed an idea that this new beginner might have been a more auspicious pupil, had he not already become a fellow of a college.  Indeed, Harry talked to him quite as though they two were on an equality together; and, before they had parted, Mr. Burton was not sure that Harry did not patronize him.  He asked the young man, however, to join them at their early dinner, and then introduced him to Mrs. Burton, and to their youngest daughter, the only child who was still living with them.  “All my other girls are married, Mr. Clavering; and all of them married to men connected with my own profession.”  The color came slightly to Florence Burton’s cheeks as she heard her father’s words, and Harry asked himself whether the old man expected that he should go through the same ordeal; but Mr. Burton himself was quite unaware that he had said anything wrong, and then went on to speak of the successes of his sons.  “But they began early, Mr. Clavering; and worked hard—­very hard indeed.”  He was a good, kindly, garrulous old man; but Harry began to doubt whether he would learn much at Stratton.  It was, however, too late to think of that now, and everything was fixed.

Harry, when he looked at Florence Burton, at once declared to himself that she was plain.  Anything more unlike Julia Brabazon never appeared in the guise of a young lady.  Julia was tall, with a high brow, a glorious complexion, a nose as finely modelled as though a Grecian sculptor had cut it, a small mouth, but lovely in its curves; and a chin that finished and made perfect the symmetry of her face.  Her neck was long, but graceful as a swan’s, her bust was full, and her whole figure like that of a goddess.  Added to this, when he had first known her, she had all the charm of youth.  When she had returned to Clavering the other day, the affianced bride of Lord Ongar, he had hardly known whether to admire or to deplore the settled air of established womanhood which she had assumed.  Her large eyes had always lacked something of rapid, glancing, sparkling brightness.  They had been glorious eyes to him, and in those early days he had not known that they lacked aught; but he had perceived, or perhaps fancied, that now, in her present condition, they were often cold, and sometimes almost cruel.  Nevertheless, he was ready to swear that she was perfect in her beauty.