tender toward her, owned as much as that. She had
sold herself, as she had said of herself more than once. She had given
herself to a man whom she regarded not at all, even when her heart
belonged to another--to a man whom she must have loathed and despised
when she was putting her hand into his before the altar. What scorn had
there been upon her face when she spoke of the beginning of their
married miseries. With what eloquence of expression had she pronounced
him to be vile, worthless, unmanly; a thing from which a woman must turn
with speechless contempt. She had now his name, his rank, and his money,
but she was friendless and alone. Harry Clavering declared to himself
that she had deserved it-and, having so declared, forgave her all her
faults. She had sinned, and then had suffered; and, therefore, should
now be forgiven. If he could do aught to ease her troubles, he would do
it--as a brother would for a sister.

But it would be well that she should know of his engagement. Then he
thought of the whole interview, and felt sure that she must know it. At
any rate he told himself that he was sure. She could hardly have spoken
to him as she had done, unless she had known. When last they had been
together, sauntering round the gardens at Clavering, he had rebuked her
for her treachery to him: Now she came to him almost open-armed, free,
full of her cares, swearing to him that he was her only friend! All this
could mean but one thing--unless she knew that that one thing was barred
by his altered position.

But it gratified him to think that she had chosen him for the repository
of her tale; that she had told her terrible history to him. I fear that
some small part of this gratification was owing to her rank and wealth.
To be the one friend of a widowed countess, young, rich, and beautiful,
was something much out of the common way. Such confidence lifted him far
above the Wallikers of the world. That he was pleased to be so trusted
by one that was beautiful, was, I think, no disgrace to him; although I
bear in mind his condition as a man engaged. It might be dangerous, but
that danger in such case it would be his duty to overcome. But in order
that it might be overcome, it would certainly be well that she should
know his position.

I fear he speculated as he went along as to what might have been his
condition in the world had he never seen Florence Burton. First he asked
himself, whether, under any circumstances, he wo