“Lady Clavering has been with you; has she not?”

“Once, for half an hour.  She came up for one day, and came here by herself; cowering as though she were afraid of me.  Poor Hermy!  She has not a good time of it either.  You lords of creation lead your slaves sad lives when it pleases you to change your billing and cooing for matter-of-fact masterdom and rule.  I don’t blame Hermy.  I suppose she did all she could, and I did not utter one word of reproach of her.  Nor should I to him.  Indeed, if he came now the servant would deny me to him.  He has insulted me, and I shall remember the insult.”

Harry Clavering did not clearly understand what it was that Lady Ongar had desired of her brother-in-law—­what aid she had required; nor did he know whether it would be fitting for him to offer to act in Sir Hugh’s place.  Anything that he could do, he felt himself at that moment willing to do, even though the necessary service should demand some sacrifice greater than prudence could approve.  “If I had thought that anything was wanted, I should have come to you sooner,” said he.

“Everything is wanted, Harry.  Everything is wanted—­except that check for six hundred pounds which you sent me so treacherously.  Did you ever think what might have happened if a certain person had heard of that?  All the world would have declared that you had done it for your own private purposes—­all the world, except one.”

Harry, as he heard this, felt that he was blushing.  Did Lady Ongar know of his engagement with Florence Burton?  Lady Clavering knew it, and might probably have told the tidings; but then, again, she might not have told them.  Harry at this moment wished that he knew how it was.  All that Lady Ongar said to him would come with so different a meaning according as he did or did not know that fact.  But he had no mind to tell her of the fact himself.  He declared to himself that he hoped she knew it, as it would serve to make them both more comfortable together; but he did not think it would do for him to bring forward the subject, neck and heels as it were.  The proper thing would be that she should congratulate him, but this she did not do.  “I certainly meant no ill,” he said, in answer to the last words she had spoken.

“You have never meant ill to me, Harry; though you know you have abused me dreadfully before now.  I daresay you forget the hard names you have called me.  You men do forget such things.”

“I remember calling you one name.”

“Do not repeat it now, if you please.  If I deserved it, it would shame me; and if I did not, it should shame you.”

“No; I will not repeat it.”

“Does it not seem odd, Harry, that you and I should be sitting, talking together in this way?” She was leaning now toward him, across the table, and one hand was raised to her forehead while her eyes were fixed intently upon his.  The attitude was one which he felt to express extreme intimacy.  She would not have sat in that way, pressing back her hair from her brow, with all the appearance of widowhood banished from her face, in the presence of any but a dear and close friend.  He did not think of this, but he felt that it was so, almost by instinct.  “I have such a tale to tell you,” she said; “such a tale!”