children had stumbled in their play, bruising their little noses, and barking their little shins, Mrs. Burton, the elder, had been wont to bid them rise, asking them what their legs were for, if they could not stand.  So they had dried their own little eyes with their own little fists, and had learned to understand that the rubs of the world were to be borne in silence.  This rub that had come to Florence was of grave import, and had gone deeper than the outward skin; but still the old lesson had its effect.

Florence rose from the bed on which she was lying, and prepared to come down.  “Do not commit yourself to him, as to anything,” said Cecilia.

“I understand what that means,” Florence answered.  “He thinks as I do.  But never mind.  He will not say much, and I shall say less.  It is bad to talk of this to any man—­even to a brother.”

Burton also received his sister with that exceptional affection which declares pity for some overwhelming misfortune.  He kissed her lips, which was rare with him, for he would generally but just touch her forehead, and he put his hand behind her waist and partly embraced her.  “Did Cissy manage to find you at the station?”

“Oh, yes; easily.”

“Theodore thinks that a woman is no good for any such purpose as that,” said Cecilia.  “It is a wonder to him, no doubt, that we are not now wandering about London in search of each other—­and of him.”

“I think she would have got home quicker if I could have been there,” said Burton.

“We were in a cab in one minute; weren’t we, Florence?  The difference would have been that you would have given a porter sixpence—­and I gave him a shilling, having bespoken him before.”

“And Theodore’s time was worth the sixpence, I suppose,” said Florence.

“That depends,” said Cecilia.  “How did the synod go on?”

“The synod made an ass of itself; as synods always do.  It is necessary to get a lot of men together, for the show of the thing—­otherwise the world will not believe.  That is the meaning of committees.  But the real work must always be done by one or two men.  Come; I’ll go and get ready for dinner.”

The subject—­the one real subject, had thus been altogether avoided at this first meeting with the man of the house, and the evening passed without any allusion to it.  Much was made of the children, and much was said of the old people at home; but still there was a consciousness over them all that the one matter of importance was being kept in the background.  They were all thinking of Harry Clavering, but no one mentioned his name.  They all knew that they were unhappy and heavy-hearted through his fault, but no one blamed him.  He had been received in that house with open arms, had been warmed in their bosom, and had stung them; but though they were all smarting from the sting, they uttered no complaint.  Burton had made up his mind that it would be better to pass