that for a time they may be shorn of all the charms of their sex.  Nothing could be more proper or unbecoming than the heavy, drooping, shapeless blackness in which Lady Clavering had enveloped herself.  But Lady Ongar, though also a widow, though as yet a widow of not twelve months’ standing, was dressed—­in weeds, no doubt, but in weeds which had been so cultivated that they were as good as flowers.  She was very beautiful.  Florence owned to herself as she sat there in silence, that Lady Ongar was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.  But hers was not the beauty by which, as she would have thought, Harry Clavering would have been attracted.  Lady Ongar’s form, bust, and face were, at this period of her life, almost majestic, whereas the softness and grace of womanhood were the charms which Harry loved.  He had sometimes said to Florence that, to his taste, Cecilia Burton was almost perfect as a woman; and there could be no contrast greater than that between Cecilia Burton and Lady Ongar.  But Florence did not remember that the Julia Brabazon of three years since had not been the same as the Lady Ongar whom now she saw.

When they had been there some minutes Lady Ongar came and sat beside Florence, moving her seat as though she were doing the most natural thing in the world.  Florence’s heart came to her mouth, but she made a resolution that she would, if possible, bear herself well.  “You have been at Clavering before, I think,” said Lady Ongar.  Florence said that she had been at the parsonage during the last Easter.  “Yes, I heard that you dined here with my brother-in-law.”  This she said in a low voice, having seen that Lady Clavering was engaged with Fanny and Mrs. Clavering.  “Was it not terribly sudden?”

“Terribly sudden,” said Florence.

“The two brothers!  Had you not met Captain Clavering?”

“Yes; he was here when I dined with your sister.”

“Poor fellow!  Is it not odd that they should have gone, and that their friend, whose yacht it was, should have been saved?  They say, however, that Mr. Stuart behaved admirably, begging his friends to get into the boat first.  He stayed by the vessel when the boat was carried away, and he was saved in that way.  But he meant to do the best he could for them.  There’s no doubt of that.”

“But how dreadful his feelings must be!”

“Men do not think so much of these things as we do.  They have so much more to employ their minds.  Don’t you think so?” Florence did not at the moment quite know what she thought about men’s feelings, but said that she supposed that such was the case.  “But I think that, after all, they are juster than we are,” continued Lady Ongar—­“juster and truer, though not so tender-hearted.  Mr. Stuart, no doubt, would have been willing to drown himself to save his friends, because the fault was in some degree his.  I don’t know that I should have been able to do so much.”

“In such a moment, it must have been so difficult to think of what ought to be done.”