As soon as Harry Clavering had made his promise to Mr. Burton, and had declared that he would be in Onslow Crescent that same evening, he went away from the offices at the Adelphi, feeling it to be quite impossible that he should recommence his work there at that moment, even should it ever be within his power to do so.  Nor did Burton expect that he should stay.  He understood, from what had passed, much of Harry’s trouble, if not the whole of it; and though he did not despair on behalf of his sister, he was aware that her lover had fallen into a difficulty, from which he could not extricate himself without great suffering and much struggling.  But Burton was a man who, in spite of something cynical on the surface of his character, believed well of mankind generally, and well also of men as individuals.  Even though Harry had done amiss, he might be saved.  And though Harry’s conduct to Florence might have been bad, nay, might have been false, still, as Burton believed, he was too good to be cast aside, or spurned out of the way, without some further attempt to save him.

When Clavering had left him Burton went back to his work, and after a while succeeded in riveting his mind on the papers before him.  It was a hard struggle with him, but he did it, and did not leave his business till his usual hour.  It was past five when he took down his hat and his umbrella, and, as I fear, dusted his boots before he passed out of the office on to the passage.  As he went he gave sundry directions to porters and clerks, as was his wont, and then walked off intent upon his usual exercise before he should reach his home.

But he had to determine on much with reference to Florence and Harry before he saw his wife.  How was the meeting of the evening to take place, and in what way should it be commenced?  If there were indispensable cause for his anger, in what way should he show it, and if necessity for vengeance, how should his sister be avenged?  There is nothing more difficult for a man than the redressing of injuries done to a woman who is very near to him and very dear to him.  The whole theory of Christian meekness and forgiveness becomes broken to pieces and falls to the ground, almost as an absurd theory, even at the idea of such wrong.  What man ever forgave an insult to his wife or an injury to his sister, because he had taught himself that to forgive trespasses is a religious duty?  Without an argument, without a moment’s thought, the man declares to himself that such trespasses as those are not included in the general order.  But what is he to do?  Thirty years since his course was easy, and unless the sinner were a clergyman, he could in some sort satisfy his craving for revenge by taking a pistol in his hand, and having a shot at the offender.  That method was doubtless barbarous and unreasonable, but it was satisfactory and sufficed.  But what can he do now?  A thoughtful, prudent, painstaking man, such as was Theodore Burton, feels that it is