Then he went away and walked again about the park, thinking of it all.  He had not seen her since he had walked round the park, in his misery, after parting with her in the garden.  How much had happened since then!  She had been married in her glory, had become a countess, and then a widow, and was now returning with a tarnished name, almost repudiated by those who had been her dearest friends; but with rank and fortune at her command—­and again a free woman.  He could not but think what might have been his chance were it not for Florence Burton!  But much had happened to him also.  He had almost perished in his misery—­so he told himself—­but had once more “tricked his beams”—­that was his expression to himself—­and was now “flaming in the forehead” of a glorious love.  And even if there had been no such love, would a widowed countess with a damaged name have suited his ambition, simply because she had the rich dower of the poor wretch to whom she had sold herself?  No, indeed.  There could be no question of renewed vows between them now; there could have been no such question even had there been no “glorious love,” which had accrued to him almost as his normal privilege, in right of his pupilage in Mr. Burton’s office.  No; there could be, there could have been, nothing now between him and the widowed Countess of Ongar.  But, nevertheless, he liked the idea of meeting her in London.  He felt some triumph in the thought that he should be the first to touch her hand on her return after all that she had suffered.  He would be very courteous to her, and would spare no trouble that would give her any ease.  As for her rooms, he would see to everything of which he could think that might add to her comfort; and a wish crept upon him, uninvited, that she might be conscious of what he had done for her.

Would she be aware, he wondered, that he was engaged?  Lady Clavering had known it for the last three months, and would probably have mentioned the circumstance in a letter.  But perhaps not.  The sisters, he knew, had not been good correspondents; and he almost wished that she might not know it.  “I should not care to be talking to her about Florence,” he said to himself.

It was very strange that they should come to meet in such a way, after all that had passed between them in former days.  Would it occur to her that he was the only man she had ever loved?  For, of course, as he well knew, she had never loved her husband.  Or would she now be too callous to everything but the outer world to think at all of such a subject?  She had said that she was aged, and he could well believe it.  Then he pictured her to himself in her weeds, worn, sad, thin, but still proud and handsome.  He had told Florence of his early love for the woman whom Lord Ongar had married, and had described with rapture his joy that that early passion had come to nothing.  Now he would have to tell Florence of this meeting; and he thought of the comparison he would make between her bright young charms and the shipwrecked beauty of the widow.  On the whole, he was proud that he had been selected for the commission, as he liked to think of himself as one to whom things happened which were out of the ordinary course.  His only objection to Florence was that she had come to him so much in the ordinary course.