And there was something which did not quite please Harry in Mr. Theodore Burton’s manner, though the gentleman had manifestly intended to be very kind to him.  When Burton had been speaking to him for a minute or two, it flashed across Harry’s mind that he had not bound himself to marry the whole Burton family, and that, perhaps, he must take some means to let that fact be known.  “Theodore,” as he had so often heard the younger Mr. Burton called by loving lips, seemed to claim him as his own, called him Harry, and upbraided him with friendly warmth for not having come direct to his—­Mr. Burton’s house-in Onslow Crescent.  “Pray feel yourself at home there,” said Mr. Burton.  “I hope you’ll like my wife.  You needn’t be afraid of being made to be idle if you spend your evenings there, for we are all reading people.  Will you come and dine to-day?” Florence had told him that she was her brother Theodore’s favorite sister, and that Theodore as a husband and a brother, and a man, was perfect.  But Theodore had dusted his boots with his handkerchief, and Harry Clavering would not dine with him on that day.

And then it was perfectly manifest to him that every one in the office knew his destiny with reference to old Burton’s daughter.  He had been one of the Stratton men, and no more than any other had he gone unscathed through the Stratton fire.  He had been made to do the regular thing, as Granger, Scarness, and others had done it.  Stratton would be safer ground now, as Clavering had taken the last.  That was the feeling on the matter which seemed to belong to others.  It was not that Harry thought in this way of his own Florence.  He knew well enough what a lucky fellow he was to have won such a girl He was well aware how widely his Florence differed from Carry Scarness.  He denied to himself indignantly that he had any notion of repenting what he had done.  But he did wish that these private matters might have remained private, and that all the men at Beilby’s had not known of his engagement.  When Walliker, on the fourth day of their acquaintance, asked him if it was all right at Stratton, he made up his mind that he hated Walliker, and that he would hate Walliker to the last day of his life.  He had declined the first invitation given to him by Theodore Burton; but he could not altogether avoid his future brother-in-law, and had agreed to dine with him on this day.

On that same afternoon Harry, when he left Mr. Beilby’s office, went direct to Bolton Street, that he might call on Lady Ongar.  As he went thither he bethought himself that these Wallikers and the like had had no such events in life as had befallen him!  They laughed at him about Florence Burton, little guessing that it had been his lot to love, and to be loved by such a one as Julia Brabazon had been—­such a one as Lady Ongar now was.  But things had gone well with him.  Julia Brabazon could have made no man happy, but Florence Burton would be the sweetest,