Harry had never loved his cousins.  The elder he had greatly disliked, and the younger he would have disliked had he not despised him.  But not the less on that account was he inexpressibly shocked when he first heard what had happened.  The lad said that there could, as he imagined, be no mistake.  The message had come, as he believed, from Holland, but of that he was not certain.  There could, however, be no doubt about the fact.  It distinctly stated that both brothers had perished.  Harry had known, when he received the message from home, that no train would take him till three in the afternoon, and had therefore remained at the office; but he could not remain now.  His head was confused, and he could hardly bring himself to think how this matter would affect himself.  When he attempted to explain his absence to an old serious clerk there, he spoke of his own return to the office as certain.  He should be back, he supposed, in a week at the furthest.  He was thinking thus of his promises to Theodore Burton, and had not begun to realize the fact that his whole destiny in life would be changed.  He said something, with a long face, on the terrible misfortune which had occurred, but gave no hint that that misfortune would be important in its consequences to himself.  It was not till he had reached his lodging in Bloomsbury Square that he remembered that his own father was now the baronet, and that he was his father’s heir.  And then for a moment he thought about the property.  He believed that it was entailed, but even of that he was not certain.  But if it were unentailed, to whom could his cousin have left it?  He endeavored, however, to expel such thoughts from his mind, as though there was something ungenerous in entertaining them.  He tried to think of the widow, but even in doing that he could not tell himself that there was much ground for genuine sorrow.  No wife had ever had less joy from her husband’s society than Lady Clavering had had from that of Sir Hugh.  There was no child to mourn the loss—­no brother, no unmarried sister.  Sir Hugh had had friends—­as friendship goes with such men; but Harry could not but doubt whether among them all there would be one who would feel anything like true grief for his loss.  And it was the same with Archie.  Who in the world would miss Archie Clavering?  What man or woman would find the world to be less bright because Archie Clavering was sleeping beneath the waves?  Some score of men at his club would talk of poor Clavvy for a few days—­would do so without any pretence at the tenderness of sorrow; and then even of Archie’s memory there would be an end.  Thinking of all this as he was carried down to Clavering, Harry could not but acknowledge that the loss to the world had not been great; but, even while telling himself this, he would not allow himself to take comfort in the prospect of his heirship.  Once, perhaps, he did speculate how Florence should bear her honors as Lady Clavering, but this idea he swept away from his thoughts as quickly as he was able.