Florence, when she heard all this, became aware that in talking about a month she had forgotten herself.  She had been accustomed to holidays of a month’s duration, and to honeymoon trips fitted to such vacations.  A month was the longest holiday ever heard of in the chambers of the Adelphi, or at the house in Onslow Crescent.  She had forgotten herself.  It was not to be the lot of her husband to earn his bread, and fit himself to such periods as business might require.  Then Harry went on describing the tour which he had arranged—­which, as he said, he only suggested.  But it was quite apparent that in this matter he intended to be paramount.  Florence indeed made no objection.  To spend a fortnight in Paris—­to hurry over the Alps before the cold weather came—­to spend a month in Florence, and then go on to Rome—­it would all be very nice.  But she declared that it would suit the next year better than this.

“Suit ten thousand fiddlesticks,” said Harry.

“But it is October now.”

“And therefore there is no time to lose.”

“I haven’t a dress in the world but the one I have on, and a few others like it.  Oh, Harry, how can you talk in that way?”

“Well, say four weeks then from now.  That will make it the seventh of November, and we’ll only stay a day or two in Paris.  We can do Paris next year—­in May.  If you’ll agree to that, I’ll agree.”  But Florence’s breath was taken away from her, and she could agree to nothing.  She did agree to nothing till she had been talked into doing so by Mrs. Clavering.

“My dear,” said her future mother-in-law, “what you say is undoubtedly true.  There is no absolute necessity for hurrying.  It is not an affair of life and death.  But you and Harry have been engaged quite long enough now, and I really don’t see why you should put it off.  If you do as he asks you, you will just have time to make yourselves comfortable before the cold weather begins.”

“But mamma will be so surprised.”

“I’m sure she will wish it, my dear.  You see Harry is a young man of that sort—­so impetuous I mean, you know, and so eager—­and so—­you know what I mean—­that the sooner he is married the better.  You can’t but take it as a compliment, Florence, that he is so eager.”

“Of course I do.”

“And you should reward him.  Believe me, it will be best that it should not be delayed.”  Whether or no Mrs. Clavering had present in her imagination the possibility of any further danger that might result from Lady Ongar, I will not say, but if so she altogether failed in communicating her idea to Florence.

“Then I must go home at once,” said Florence, driven almost to bewail the terrors of her position.