to ring the bell, and to be asked to step into the stable for this or that.  He was a fellow of his college, and quite as big a man, he thought, as Sir Hugh.  He would not be a hanger-on at the park, and, to tell the truth, he disliked his cousin quite as much as his father did.  But there had even been a sort of friendship—­nay, occasionally almost a confidence, between him and Lady Clavering, and he believed that by her he was really liked.

Lady Clavering had heard of his engagement, and, of course, congratulated him.  “Who told you?” he asked—­“was it my mother?”

“No; I have not seen your mother I don’t know when.  I think it was my maid told me.  Though we somehow don’t see much of you all at the rectory, our servants are no doubt more gracious with the rectory servants.  I’m sure she must be nice, Harry, or you would not have chosen her.  I hope she has got some money.”

“Yes, I think she is nice.  She is coming here at Easter.”

“Ah, we shall be away then, you know; and about the money?”

“She will have a little, but very little; a hundred a year.”

“Oh, Harry, is not that rash of you?  Younger brothers should always get money.  You’re the same as a younger brother, you know.”

“My idea is to earn my own bread.  It’s not very aristocratic, but, after all, there are a great many more in the same boat with me.”

Of course you will earn your bread, but having a wife with money would not hinder that.  A girl is not the worse because she can bring some help.  However, I’m sure I hope you’ll be happy.”

“What I meant was that I think it best when the money comes from the husband.”

“I’m sure I ought to agree with you, because we never had any.”  Then there was a pause.  “I suppose you’ve heard about Lord Ongar,” she said.

“I have heard that he is very ill.”

“Very ill.  I believe there was no hope when we heard last; but Julia never writes now.”

“I’m sorry that it is so bad as that,” said Harry, not well knowing what else to say.

“As regards Julia, I do not know whether it may not be for the best.  It seems to be a cruel thing to say, but of course I cannot but think most of her.  You have heard, perhaps, that they have not been happy?”

“Yes; I had heard that.”

“Of course; and what is the use of pretending anything with you?  You know what people have said of her.”

“I have never believed it.”

“You always loved her, Harry.  Oh, dear, I remember how unhappy that made me once, and I was so afraid that Hugh would suspect it.  She would never have done for you; would she, Harry?”

“She did a great deal better for herself.” said Harry.

“If you mean that ironically, you shouldn’t say it now.  If he dies, she will be well off, of course, and people will in time forget what has been said—­that is, if she will live quietly.  The worst of it is that she fears nothing.”