ly walk the streets by himself, and declare to himself that
everything is bad, and rotten, and vile, and worthless. He wishes
himself dead, and calculates the different advantages of prussic acid
and pistols. He may the while take his meals very punctually at his
club, may smoke his cigars, and drink his bitter beer, or
brandy-and-water; but he is all the time wishing himself dead, and
making that calculation as to the best way of achieving that desirable
result. Such was Harry Clavering's condition now. As for his office, the
doors of that place were absolutely closed against him, by the presence
of Theodore Burton. When he attempted to read, he could not understand a
word, or sit for ten minutes with a book in his hand. No occupation was
possible to him. He longed to go again to Bolton Street, but he did not
even do that. If there, he could act only as though Florence had been
deserted for ever; and if he so acted, he would be infamous for life.
And yet he had sworn to Julia that such was his intention. He hardly
dared to ask himself which of the two he loved. The misery of it all had
become so heavy upon him, that he could take no pleasure in the thought
of his love. It must always be all regret, all sorrow, and all remorse.
Then there came upon him the letter from Theodore Burton, and he knew
that it was necessary that he should see the writer.

Nothing could be more disagreeable than such an interview, but he could
not allow himself to be guilty of the cowardice of declining it. Of a
personal quarrel with Burton he was not afraid. He felt, indeed, that he
might almost find relief in the capability of being himself angry with
any one. But he must positively make up his mind before such an
interview. He must devote himself either to Florence or to Julia; and he
did not know how to abandon the one or the other. He had allowed himself
to be so governed by impulse that he had pledged himself to Lady Ongar,
and had sworn to her that he would be entirely hers. She, it is true,
had not taken him altogether at his word, but not the less did he
know--did he think that he knew--that she looked for the performance of
his promise. And she had been the first that he had sworn to love!

In his dilemma he did at last go to Bolton Street, and there found that
Lady Ongar had left town for three or four days. The servant said that
she had gone, he believed, to the Isle of Wight; and that Madam
Gordeloup had gone with her. She was to