“I suppose the truth is, you are tired of our dullness,” said his father to him, when he declared his purpose of going up to London, and, in answer to certain questions that were asked him, had hesitated to tell his business.

“Indeed, it is not so,” said Harry, earnestly; “but I have a commission to execute for a certain person, and I cannot explain what it is.”

“Another secret—­eh, Harry?”

“I am very sorry—­but it is a secret.  It is not one of my own seeking; that is all I can say.”  His mother and sisters also asked him a question or two; but when he became mysterious they did not persevere.  “Of course it is something about Florence,” said Fanny.  “I’ll be bound he is going to meet her.  What will you bet me, Harry, you don’t go to the play with Florence before you come home?” To this Henry deigned no answer; and after that no more questions were asked.

He went up to London and took rooms in Bolton street.  There was a pretty fresh-looking light drawing-room, or, indeed, two drawing-rooms, and a small dining-room, and a large bedroom looking over upon the trees of some great nobleman’s garden.  As Harry stood at the window it seemed so odd to him that he should be there.  And he was busy about everything in the chamber, seeing that all things were clean and well ordered.  Was the Woman of the house sure of her cook?  Sure; of course she was sure.  Had not old Lady Dimdaff lived there for two years, and nobody ever was so particular about her victuals as Lady Dimdaff.  “And would Lady Ongar keep her own carriage?” As to this Harry could say nothing.  Then came the question of price, and Harry found his commission very difficult.  The sum asked seemed to be enormous.  “Seven guineas a week at that time of the year?” Lady Dimdaff had always paid seven guineas.  “But that was in the season,” suggested Harry.  To this the woman replied that it was the season now.  Harry felt that he did not like to drive a bargain for the Countess, who would probably care very little what she paid, and therefore assented.  But a guinea a day for lodgings did seem a great deal of money.  He was prepared to marry and commence housekeeping upon a less sum for all his expenses.  However, he had done his commission, had written to Lady Clavering, and had telegraphed to Paris.  He had almost brought himself to write to Lady Ongar, but when the moment came he abstained.  He had sent the telegram as from H. Clavering.  She might think that it came from Hugh, if she pleased.  He was unable not to attend specially to his dress when he went to meet her at the Victoria Station.  He told himself that he was an ass—­but still he went on being an ass.  During the whole afternoon he could do nothing but think of what he had in hand.  He was to tell Florence everything, but had Florence known the actual state of his mind, I doubt whether she would have been satisfied with him.  The train was due at 8 p.m.  He dined at the Oxford and