Has it ever been the lot of any unmarried male reader of these pages to pass three or four days in London, without anything to do—­to have to get through them by himself—­and to have that burden on his shoulder, with the additional burden of some terrible, wearing misery, away from which there seems to be no road, and out of which there is apparently no escape?  That was Harry Clavering’s condition for some few days after the evening which he last passed in the company of Lady Ongar; and I will ask any such unmarried man whether, in such a plight, there was for him any other alternative but to wish himself dead?  In such a condition, a man can simply walk the streets by himself, and declare to himself that everything is bad, and rotten, and vile, and worthless.  He wishes himself dead, and calculates the different advantages of prussic acid and pistols.  He may the while take his meals very punctually at his club, may smoke his cigars, and drink his bitter beer, or brandy-and-water; but he is all the time wishing himself dead, and making that calculation as to the best way of achieving that desirable result.  Such was Harry Clavering’s condition now.  As for his office, the doors of that place were absolutely closed against him, by the presence of Theodore Burton.  When he attempted to read, he could not understand a word, or sit for ten minutes with a book in his hand.  No occupation was possible to him.  He longed to go again to Bolton Street, but he did not even do that.  If there, he could act only as though Florence had been deserted for ever; and if he so acted, he would be infamous for life.  And yet he had sworn to Julia that such was his intention.  He hardly dared to ask himself which of the two he loved.  The misery of it all had become so heavy upon him, that he could take no pleasure in the thought of his love.  It must always be all regret, all sorrow, and all remorse.  Then there came upon him the letter from Theodore Burton, and he knew that it was necessary that he should see the writer.

Nothing could be more disagreeable than such an interview, but he could not allow himself to be guilty of the cowardice of declining it.  Of a personal quarrel with Burton he was not afraid.  He felt, indeed, that he might almost find relief in the capability of being himself angry with any one.  But he must positively make up his mind before such an interview.  He must devote himself either to Florence or to Julia; and he did not know how to abandon the one or the other.  He had allowed himself to be so governed by impulse that he had pledged himself to Lady Ongar, and had sworn to her that he would be entirely hers.  She, it is true, had not taken him altogether at his word, but not the less did he know—­did he think that he knew—­that she looked for the performance of his promise.  And she had been the first that he had sworn to love!