by which he will strive to be successful; but he will tell himself what are the vices which he will avoid, and what the virtues which he will strive to attain.  Few young men ever did this with more precision than it had been done by Harry Clavering, and few with more self-confidence.  Very early in life he had been successful—­so successful as to enable him to emancipate himself not only from his father’s absolute control, but almost also from any interference on his father’s part.  It had seemed to be admitted that he was a better man than his father, better than the other Claverings—­the jewel of the race, the Clavering to whom the family would in future years look up, not as their actual head, but as their strongest prop and most assured support.  He had said to himself that he would be an honest, truthful, hard-working man, not covetous after money, though conscious that a laborer was worthy of his hire, and conscious also that the better the work done the better should be his wages.  Then he had encountered a blow—­a heavy blow from a false woman—­and he had boasted to himself that he had borne it well, as a man should bear all blows.  And now, after all these resolves and all these boastings, he found himself brought by his own weakness to such a pass that he hardly dared to look in the face any of his dearest and most intimate friends.

He was not remiss in telling himself all this.  He did draw the comparison ruthlessly between the character which he had intended to make his own and that which he now had justly earned.  He did not excuse himself.  We are told to love others as ourselves, and it is hard to do so.  But I think that we never hate others, never despise others, as we are sometimes compelled by our own convictions and self-judgment to hate and to despise ourselves.  Harry, as he walked home on this evening, was lost in disgust at his own conduct.  He could almost have hit his head against the walls, or thrown himself beneath the wagons as he passed them, so thoroughly was he ashamed of his own life.  Even now, on this evening, he had escaped from Onslow Crescent—­basely escaped—­without having declared any purpose.  Twice on this day he had escaped, almost by subterfuges; once from Burton’s office, and now again from Cecilia’s presence.  How long was this to go on, or how could life be endurable to him under such circumstances?

In parting from Cecilia, and promising to write at once, and promising to come again in a few days, he had had some idea in his head that he would submit his fate to the arbitrament of Lady Ongar.  At any rate he must, he thought, see her, and finally arrange with her what the fate of both of them should be, before he could make any definite statement of his purpose in Onslow Crescent.  The last tender of his hand had been made to Julia, and he could not renew his former promises on Florence’s behalf, till he had been absolved by Julia.