at Stratton. It was, however, too late to think of that now, and
everything was fixed.

Harry, when he looked at Florence Burton, at once declared to himself
that she was plain. Anything more unlike Julia Brabazon never appeared
in the guise of a young lady. Julia was tall, with a high brow, a
glorious complexion, a nose as finely modelled as though a Grecian
sculptor had cut it, a small mouth, but lovely in its curves; and a chin
that finished and made perfect the symmetry of her face. Her neck was
long, but graceful as a swan's, her bust was full, and her whole figure
like that of a goddess. Added to this, when he had first known her, she
had all the charm of youth. When she had returned to Clavering the other
day, the affianced bride of Lord Ongar, he had hardly known whether to
admire or to deplore the settled air of established womanhood which she
had assumed. Her large eyes had always lacked something of rapid,
glancing, sparkling brightness. They had been glorious eyes to him, and
in those early days he had not known that they lacked aught; but he had
perceived, or perhaps fancied, that now, in her present condition, they
were often cold, and sometimes almost cruel. Nevertheless, he was ready
to swear that she was perfect in her beauty.

Poor Florence Burton was short of stature, was brown, meagre, and
poor-looking. So said Harry Clavering to himself. Her small band, though
soft, lacked that wondrous charm of touch which Julia's possessed. Her
face was short, and her forehead, though it was broad and open, had none
of that feminine command which Julia's look conveyed. That Florence's
eyes were very bright--bright and soft as well, he allowed; and her dark
brown hair was very glossy; but she was, on the whole, a mean-looking
little thing. He could not, as he said to himself on his return home,
avoid the comparison, as she was the first girl he had seen since he had