know it. "I should not care to be talking to her about Florence," he
said to himself.

It was very strange that they should come to meet in such a way, after
all that had passed between them in former days. Would it occur to her
that he was the only man she had ever loved? For, of course, as he well
knew, she had never loved her husband. Or would she now be too callous
to everything but the outer world to think at all of such a subject? She
had said that she was aged, and he could well believe it. Then he
pictured her to himself in her weeds, worn, sad, thin, but still proud
and handsome. He had told Florence of his early love for the woman whom
Lord Ongar had married, and had described with rapture his joy that that
early passion had come to nothing. Now he would have to tell Florence of
this meeting; and he thought of the comparison he would make between her
bright young charms and the shipwrecked beauty of the widow. On the
whole, he was proud that he had been selected for the commission, as he
liked to think of himself as one to whom things happened which were out
of the ordinary course. His only objection to Florence was that she had
come to him so much in the ordinary course.

"I suppose the truth is, you are tired of our dullness," said his father
to him, when he declared his purpose of going up to London, and, in
answer to certain questions that were asked him, had hesitated to tell
his business.

"Indeed, it is not so," said Harry, earnestly; "but I have a commission
to execute for a certain person, and I cannot explain what it is."

"Another secret--eh, Harry?"