“No; it is not that.  It is not that he is tired of you.  If you had heard him speak of you on Friday—­that you were the noblest, purest, dearest, best of women—­” This was imprudent on her part; but what loving woman could have endured to be prudent?

“Then what is it?” asked Florence, almost sternly.  “Look here, Cecilia; if it be anything touching himself or his own character, I will put up with it, in spite of anything my brother may say.  Though he had been a murderer, if that were possible, I would not leave him.  I never will, unless he leaves me.  Where is he?”

“He is in town.”  Mrs. Burton had not received Harry’s note, telling her of his journey to Clavering, before she had left home.  Now, at this moment, it was waiting for her in Onslow Crescent.

“And am I to see him?  Cecilia why cannot you tell me how it is?  In such a case I should tell you—­should tell you everything at once; because I know that you are not a coward.  Why cannot you do so to me?”

“You have heard of Lady Ongar?”

“Heard of her; yes.  She treated Harry very badly before her marriage.”

“She has come back to London, a widow.”

“I know she has.  And Harry has gone back to her!  Is that it?  Do you mean to tell me that Harry and she are to be married?”

“No; I cannot say that.  I hope it is not so.  Indeed, I do not think it.”

“Then what have I to fear?  Does she object to his marrying me?  What has she to do between us?”

“She wishes that Harry should come back to her, and Harry has been unsteady.  He has been with her often, and he has been very weak.  It may be all right yet, Flo; it may indeed—­if you can forgive his weakness.”

Something of the truth had now come home to Florence, and she sat thinking of it long before she spoke again.  This widow, she knew, was very wealthy, and Harry had loved her before he had come to Stratton.  Harry’s first love had come back free—­free to wed again, and able to make the fortune of the man she might love and marry.  What had Florence to give to any man that could be weighed with this?  Lady Ongar was very rich.  Florence had already heard all this from Harry—­was very rich, was clever, and was beautiful; and moreover, she had been Harry’s first love.  Was it reasonable that she, with her little claims, her puny attractions, should stand in Harry’s way when such a prize as that came across him!  And as for his weakness; might it not be strength, rather than weakness; the strength of an old love which he could not quell, now that the woman was free to take him?  For herself—­had she not known that she had only come second?  As she thought of him with his noble bride and that bride’s great fortune, and of her own insignificance, her low birth, her doubtful prettiness—­prettiness that had ever been doubtful to herself of her few advantages, she told herself that she had no right to stand upon her claims.  “I wish I had known it sooner,” she said, in a voice so soft that Cecilia strained her ears to catch the words.  “I wish I had known it sooner.  I would not have come up to be in his way.”