“Women expect such a lot of letter-writing!  But I have been remiss I know.  I got out of my business way of doing things when I came down here and have neglected it.  Do you write to her to-morrow, and tell her that she shall hear from me directly I get back to town.”

“But why should you not write to her from here?”

“Because I can get you to do it for me.”

Fanny felt that this was not at all like a lover, and not at all like such a lover as her brother had been.  While Florence had been at Clavering he had been most constant with his letters, and Fanny had often heard Florence boast of them as being perfect in their way.  She did not say anything further at the present moment, but she knew that things were not altogether right.  Things were by no means right.  He had written neither to Lady Ongar nor to Florence, and the longer he put off the task the more burdensome did it become.  He was now telling himself that he would write to neither till he got back to London.

On the day before he went, there came to him a letter from Stratton.  Fanny was with him when he received it, and observed that he put it into his pocket without opening it.  In his pocket he carried it unopened half the day, till he was ashamed of his own weakness.  At last, almost in despair with himself, he broke the seal and forced himself to read it.  There was nothing in it that need have alarmed him.  It contained hardly a word that was intended for a rebuke.

“I wonder why you should have been two whole weeks without writing,” she said.  “It seems so odd to me, because you have spoiled me by your customary goodness.  I know that other men when they are engaged do not trouble themselves with constant letter-writing.  Even Theodore, who, according to Cecilia, is perfect, would not write to her then very often; and now, when he is away, his letters are only three lines.  I suppose you are teaching me not to be exacting.  If so, I will kiss the rod like a good child; but I feel it the more because the lesson has not come soon enough.”

Then she went on in her usual strain, telling him of what she had done, what she had read and what she had thought.  There was no suspicion in her letters no fear, no hint at jealousy.  And she should have no further cause for jealousy!  One of the two must be sacrificed, and it was most fitting that Julia should be the sacrifice.  Julia should be sacrificed—­Julia and himself!  But still he could not write to Florence till he had written to Julia.  He could not bring himself to send soft, pretty, loving words to one woman while the other was still regarding him as her affianced lover.

“Was your letter from Florence this morning?” Fanny asked.

“Yes; it was.”

“Had she received mine?”

“I don’t know.  Of course she had.  If you sent it by post of course she got it.”

“She might have mentioned it, perhaps.”

“I daresay she did.  I don’t remember.”