not given to him to attack another with his fists, to fly at his enemy’s throat, and carry out his purpose after the manner of dogs.  Such a one has probably something round his heart which tells him that if so attacked he could defend himself; but he knows that he has no aptitude for making such onslaught, and is conscious that such deeds of arms would be unbecoming to him.  In many, perhaps in most of such cases, he may, if he please, have recourse to the laws.  But any aid that the law can give him is altogether distasteful to him.  The name of her that is so dear to him should be kept quiet as the grave under such misfortune, not blazoned through ten thousand columns for the amusement of all the crowd.  There is nothing left for him but to spurn the man—­not with his foot but with his thoughts; and the bitter consciousness that to such spurning the sinner will be indifferent.  The old way was barbarous certainly, and unreasonable—­but there was a satisfaction in it that has been often wanting since the use of pistols went out of fashion among us.

All this passed through Burton’s mind as he walked home.  One would not have supposed him to be a man eager for bloodshed—­he with a wife whom he deemed to be perfect, with children who in his eyes were gracious as young gods, with all his daily work which he loved as good workers always do; but yet, as he thought of Florence, as he thought of the possibility of treachery on Harry’s part, he regarded almost with dismay the conclusion to which he was forced to come—­that there could be no punishment.  He might proclaim the offender to the world as false, and the world would laugh at the proclaimer, and shake hands with the offender.  To sit together with such a man on a barrel of powder, or fight him over a handkerchief seemed to him to be reasonable, nay salutary, under such a grievance.  There are sins, he felt, which the gods should punish with instant thunderbolts, and such sins as this were of such a nature.  His Florence—­pure, good, loving, true, herself totally void of all suspicion, faultless in heart as well as mind, the flower of that Burton flock which had prospered so well—­that she should be sacrificed through the treachery of a man who, at his best, had scarcely been worthy of her!  The thought of this was almost too much for him, and he gnashed his teeth as he went on his way.

But yet he had not given up the man.  Though he could not restrain himself from foreshadowing the misery that would result from such baseness, yet he told himself that he would not condemn before condemnation was necessary.  Harry Clavering might not be good enough for Florence.  What man was good enough for Florence?  But still, if married, Harry, he thought, would not make a bad husband Many a man who is prone enough to escape from the bonds which he has undertaken to endure—­to escape from them before they are riveted—­is mild enough under their endurance, when they are once fastened upon him.  Harry Clavering was not of such a nature