But, in spite of all this, he did venture to triumph a little when he met Doodles at the club.  He had employed the Russian spy, and had paid her twenty pounds, and was enrolled in the corps of diplomatic and mysterious personages, who do their work by mysterious agencies.  He did not tell Doodles anything about the glove, or the way in which the money was taken from him; but he did say that he was to see the spy again to-morrow, and that he intended to take with him another present of fifty pounds.

“By George, Clavey, you are going it.” said Doodles, in a voice that was delightfully envious to the ears of Captain Archie.  When he heard that envious tone he felt that he was entitled to be triumphant.

Chapter XXIX

What Would Men Say To You?

“Harry, tell me the truth—­tell me all the truth.”  Harry Clavering was thus greeted when, in obedience to the summons from Lady Ongar, he went to her almost immediately on his return to London.

It will be remembered that he had remained at Clavering some days after the departure of Hugh and Archie, lacking the courage to face his misfortunes boldly.  But though his delay had been cowardly, it had not been easy to him to be a coward.  He despised himself for not having written with warm, full-expressed affection to Florence and with honest, clear truth to Julia.  Half his misery rose from this feeling of self-abasement, and from the consciousness that he was weak, piteously weak, exactly in that in which he had often boasted to himself that he was strong.  But such inward boastings are not altogether bad.  They preserve men from succumbing, and make at any rate some attempt to realize themselves.  The man who tells himself that he is brave, will struggle much before he flies; but the man who never does so tell himself, will find flying easy unless his heart be of nature very high.  Now had come the moment either for flying or not flying; and Harry, swearing that he would stand his ground, resolutely took his hat and gloves, and made his way to Bolton Street with a sore heart.

But as he went he could not keep himself from arguing the matter within his own breast.  He knew what was his duty.  It was his duty to stick to Florence, not only with his word and his hand, but with his heart.  It was his duty to tell Lady Ongar that, not only his word was at Stratton, but his heart also, and to ask her pardon for the wrong that he had done her by that caress.  For some ten minutes as he walked through the streets his resolve was strong to do this manifest duty; but, gradually, as he thought of that caress, as he thought of the difficulties of the coming interview, as he thought of Julia’s high-toned beauty—­perhaps something also of her wealth and birth—­and more strongly still as he thought of her love for him, false, treacherous, selfish arguments offered themselves to his mind—­arguments which he knew to be false and selfish.  Which