“I don’t think that of Harry.  Surely that letter shows a spirit.”

“Such a one as I should be ashamed to see in a dog.  No man should ever be in a position in which he cannot defend himself.  No man, at any rate, should admit himself to be so placed.  Wish that he should go on with his engagement!  I do not wish it at all.  I am sorry for Florence.  She will suffer terribly.  But the loss of such a lover as that is infinitely a lesser loss than would be the gain of such a husband.  You had better write to Florence, and tell her not to come.”

“Oh, Theodore!”

“That is my advice.”

“But there is no post between this and Monday.” said Cecilia temporizing.

“Send her a message by the wires.”

“You cannot explain this by a telegram, Theodore.  Besides, why should she not come?  Her coming can do no harm.  If you were to tell your mother now of all this, it would prevent the possibility of things ever being right.”

“Things—­that is, this thing, never will be right,” said he.

“But let us see.  She will be here on Monday, and if you think it best you can tell her everything.  Indeed, she must be told when she is here, for I could not keep it from her.  I could not smile and talk to her about him and make her think that it is all right.”

“Not you!  I should be very sorry if you could.”

“But I think I could make her understand that she should not decide upon breaking with him altogether.”

“And I think I could make her understand that she ought to do so.”

“But you wouldn’t do that, Theodore?”

“I would if I thought it my duty.”

“But at any rate, she must come, and we can talk of that tomorrow.”

As to Florence’s coming, Burton had given way, beaten, apparently, by that argument about the post.  On the Sunday very little was said about Harry Clavering.  Cecilia studiously avoided the subject, and Burton had not so far decided on dropping Harry altogether as to make him anxious to express any such decision.  After all, such dropping or not dropping must be the work of Florence herself.  On the Monday morning Cecilia had a further triumph.  On that day her husband was very fully engaged—­having to meet a synod of contractors, surveyors and engineers, to discuss which of the remaining thoroughfares of London should not be knocked down by the coming railways—­and he could not absent himself from the Adelphi.  It was, therefore, arranged that Mrs. Burton should go to the Paddington Station to meet her sister-in-law.  She therefore would have the first word with Florence, and the earliest opportunity of impressing the new-comer with her own ideas.  “Of course, you must say something to her of this man,” said her husband, “but the less you say the better.  After all, she must be left to judge for herself.”  In all matters such as this—­in all affairs of tact, of social intercourse, and of conduct between man and man, or man and woman, Mr. Burton was apt to be eloquent in his domestic discussion, and sometimes almost severe; but the final arrangement of them was generally left to his wife.  He enunciated principles of strategy—­much, no doubt, to her benefit; but she actually fought the battles.