He changed his clothes at his lodgings in Mount Street and went down to his club to dinner.  He could, at any rate, do nothing that night.  His letter to Allington must, no doubt, be written at once; but, as he could not send it before the next night’s post, he was not forced to set to work upon it that evening.  As he walked along Piccadilly on his way to St. James’s Square, it occurred to him that it might be well to write a short line to Lily, telling her nothing of the truth,—­a note written as though his engagement with her was still unbroken, but yet written with care, saying nothing about that engagement, so as to give him a little time.  Then he thought that he would telegraph to Bernard and tell everything to him.  Bernard would, of course, be prepared to avenge his cousin in some way, but for such vengeance Crosbie felt that he should care little.  Lady Julia had told him that Lily was without father or brother, thereby accusing him of the basest cowardice.  “I wish she had a dozen brothers,” he said to himself.  But he hardly knew why he expressed such a wish.

He returned to London on the last day of October, and he found the streets at the West End nearly deserted.  He thought, therefore, that he should be quite alone at his club, but as he entered the dinner room he saw one of his oldest and most intimate friends standing before the fire.  Fowler Pratt was the man who had first brought him into Sebright’s, and had given him almost his earliest start on his successful career in life.  Since that time he and his friend Fowler Pratt had lived in close communion, though Pratt had always held a certain ascendancy in their friendship.  He was in age a few years senior to Crosbie, and was in truth a man of better parts.  But he was less ambitious, less desirous of shining in the world, and much less popular with men in general.  He was possessed of a moderate private fortune on which he lived in a quiet, modest manner, and was unmarried, not likely to marry, inoffensive, useless, and prudent.  For the first few years of Crosbie’s life in London he had lived very much with his friend Pratt, and had been accustomed to depend much on his friend’s counsel; but latterly, since he had himself become somewhat noticeable, he had found more pleasure in the society of such men as Dale, who were not his superiors either in age or wisdom.  But there had been no coolness between him and Pratt, and now they met with perfect cordiality.

“I thought you were down in Barsetshire,” said Pratt.

“And I thought you were in Switzerland.”

“I have been in Switzerland,” said Pratt.

“And I have been in Barsetshire,” said Crosbie.  Then they ordered their dinner together.

“And so you’re going to be married?” said Pratt, when the waiter had carried away the cheese.

“Who told you that?”

“Well, but you are?  Never mind who told me, if I was told the truth.”

“But if it be not true?”