Lady Ongar, when he entered the room, was sitting in her accustomed chair, near a little work-table which she always used, and did not rise to meet him.  It was a pretty chair, soft and easy, made with a back for lounging, but with no arms to impede the circles of a lady’s hoops.  Harry knew the chair well, and had spoken of sits graceful comfort in some of his visits to Bolton Street.  She was seated there when he entered; and though he was not sufficiently experienced in the secrets of feminine attire to know at once that she had dressed herself with care, he did perceive that she was very charming, not only by force of her own beauty, but by the aid also of her dress.  And yet she was in deep mourning—­in the deepest mourning; nor was there anything about her of which complaint might fairly be made by those who do complain on such subjects.  Her dress was high round her neck, and the cap on her head was indisputably a widow’s cap; but enough of her brown hair was to be seen to tell of its rich loveliness; and the black dress was so made as to show the full perfection of her form; and with it all there was that graceful feminine brightness that care and money can always give, and which will not come without care and money.  It might be well, she had thought, to surrender her income, and become poor and dowdy hereafter, but there could be no reason why Harry Clavering should not be made to know all that he had lost.

“Well, Harry,” she said, as he stepped up to her and took her offered hand, “I am glad that you have come that I may congratulate you.  Better late than never, eh, Harry?”

How was he to answer her when she spoke to him in this strain?  “I hope it is not too late,” he said, hardly knowing what the words were which were coming from his mouth.

“Nay, that is for you to say.  I can do it heartily, Harry, if you mean that.  And why not?  Why should I not wish you happy?  I have always liked you—­have always wished for your happiness.  You believe that I am sincere when I congratulate you, do you not?”

“Oh yes, you are always sincere.”

“I have always been so to you.  As to any sincerity beyond that, we need say nothing now.  I have always been your good friend—­to the best of my ability.  Ah!  Harry, you do not know how much I have thought of your welfare—­how much I do think of it.  But never mind that.  Tell me something now of this Florence Burton of yours.  Is she tall?” I believe that Lady Ongar, when she asked this question, knew well that Florence was short of stature.

“No, she is not tall,” said Harry.

“What—­a little beauty?  Upon the whole, I think I agree with your taste.  The most lovely women that I have ever seen have been small, bright, and perfect in their proportions.  It is very rare that a tall woman has a perfect figure.”  Julie’s own figure was quite perfect.  “Do you remember Constance Vane?  Nothing ever exceeded her beauty.”  Now Constance Vane—­she,