He was sitting in a small hack parlor in Mr. Burton’s house, and on the table of the room there was burning a single candle.  It was a dull, dingy, brown room, furnished with horsehair-covered chairs, an old horsehair sofa and heavy, rusty curtains.  I don’t know that there was in the room any attempt at ornament, as certainly there was no evidence of wealth.  It was now about seven o’clock in the evening, and tea was over in Mrs. Burton’s establishment.  Harry Clavering had had his tea, and had eaten his hot muffin, at the further side from the fire of the family table, while Florence had poured out the tea, and Mrs. Burton had sat by the fire on one side with a handkerchief over her lap, and Mr. Burton had been comfortable with his arm-chair and his slippers on the other side.  When tea was over, Harry had made his parting speech to Mrs. Burton, and that lady had kissed him, and bade God bless him.  “I’ll see you for a moment before you go, in my office, Harry,” Mr. Burton had said.  Then Harry had gone down stairs, and some one else had gone boldly with him, and they two were sitting together in the dingy brown room.  After that I need hardly tell my reader what had become of Harry Clavering’s perpetual, life-enduring heart’s misery.

He and Florence were sitting on the old horsehair sofa and Florence’s hand was in his.  “My darling,” he said, “how am I to live for the next two years?”

“You mean five years, Harry.”

“No; I mean two—­that is, two, unless I can make the time less.  I believe you’d be better pleased to think it was ten.”

“Much better pleased to think it was ten than to have no such hope at all.  Of course we shall see each other.  It’s not as though you were going to New Zealand.”

“I almost wish I were.  One would agree then as to the necessity of this cursed delay.”

“Harry, Harry!”

“It is accursed.  The prudence of the World in these latter days seems to me to be more abominable than all its other iniquities.”

“But, Harry, we should have no income.”

“Income is a word that I hate.”

“Now you are getting on to your high horse, and you know I always go out of the way when you begin to prance on that beast.  As for me, I don’t want to leave papa’s house where I’m sure of my bread and butter, till I’m sure of it in another.”

“You say that, Florence, on purpose to torment me.”

“Dear Harry, do you think I want to torment you on your last night?  The truth is, I love you so well that I can afford to be patient for you.”

“I hate patience, and always did.  Patience is one of the worst vices I know.  It’s almost as bad as humility.  You’ll tell me you’re ’umble next.  If you’ll only add that you’re contented, you’ll describe yourself as one of the lowest of God’s creatures.”

“I don’t know about being ’umble, but I am contented.  Are not you contented with me, sir?”

“No—­because you’re not in a hurry to be married.”