“Well, Harry you need not be cross with me because I love the girl who is going to be your wife.  You would not like it if I did not care about her.”

“I hate being called cross.”

“Suppose I were to say that I hated your being cross.  I’m sure I do; and you are going away to-morrow, too.  You have hardly said a nice word to me since you have been home.”

Harry threw himself back into a chair almost in despair.  He was not enough a hypocrite to say nice words when his heart within him was not at ease.  He could not bring himself to pretend that things were pleasant.

“If you are in trouble, Harry, I will not go on teasing you.”

“I am in trouble,” he said.

“And cannot I help you?”

“No; you cannot help me.  No one can help me.  But do not ask any questions.”

“Oh, Harry! is it about money?”

“No, no; it has nothing to do with money.”

“You have not really quarrelled with Florence?”

“No; I have not quarrelled with her at all.  But I will not answer more questions.  And, Fanny, do not speak of this to my father or mother.  It will be over before long, and then, if possible, I will tell you.”

“Harry, you are not going to fight with Hugh?”

“Fight with Hugh! no.  Not that I should mind it; but he is not fool enough for that.  If he wanted fighting done, he would do it by deputy.  But there is nothing of that kind.”

She asked him no more questions, and on the next morning he returned to London.  On his table he found a note which he at once knew to be from Lady Ongar, and which had come only that afternoon.

“Come to me at once; at once.”  That was all that note contained.  Fanny Clavering, while she was inquiring of her brother about his troubles, had not been without troubles of her own.  For some days past she had been aware—­almost aware—­that Mr. Saul’s love was not among the things that were past.  I am not prepared to say that this conviction on her part was altogether an unalloyed trouble, or that there might have been no faint touch of sadness, of silent melancholy about her, had it been otherwise.  But Mr. Saul was undoubtedly a trouble to her; and Mr. Saul with his love in activity would be more troublesome than Mr. Saul with his love in abeyance.  “It would be madness either in him or in me,” Fanny had said to herself very often; “he has not a shilling in the world.”  But she thought no more in these days of the awkwardness of his gait, or of his rusty clothes, or his abstracted manner; and for his doings as a clergyman her admiration had become very great.  Her mother saw something of all this, and cautioned her; but Fanny’s demure manner deceived Mrs. Clavering.  “Oh, mamma, of course I know that anything of the kind must be impossible; and I’m sure he does not think of it himself any longer.”  When she had said this, Mrs. Clavering had believed that it was all right.  The reader must not suppose that Fanny had been a hypocrite.  There had been no hypocrisy in her words to her mother.  At that moment the conviction that Mr. Saul’s love was not among past events had not reached her; and as regarded, herself; she was quite sincere when she said that anything of the kind must be impossible.