Lady Ongar, he went
to her almost immediately on his return to London.

It will be remembered that he had remained at Clavering some days after
the departure of Hugh and Archie, lacking the courage to face his
misfortunes boldly. But though his delay had been cowardly, it had not
been easy to him to be a coward. He despised himself for not having
written with warm, full-expressed affection to Florence and with honest,
clear truth to Julia. Half his misery rose from this feeling of
self-abasement, and from the consciousness that he was weak, piteously
weak, exactly in that in which he had often boasted to himself that he
was strong. But such inward boastings are not altogether bad. They
preserve men from succumbing, and make at any rate some attempt to
realize themselves. The man who tells himself that he is brave, will
struggle much before he flies; but the man who never does so tell
himself, will find flying easy unless his heart be of nature very high.
Now had come the moment either for flying or not flying; and Harry,
swearing that he would stand his ground, resolutely took his hat and
gloves, and made his way to Bolton Street with a sore heart.

But as he went he could not keep himself from arguing the matter within
his own breast. He knew what was his duty. It was his duty to stick to
Florence, not only with his word and his hand, but with his heart. It
was his duty to tell Lady Ongar that, not only his word was at Stratton,
but his heart also, and to ask her pardon for the wrong that he had done
her by that caress. For some ten minutes as he walked through the
streets his resolve was strong to do this manifest duty; but, gradually,
as he thought of that caress, as he thought of the difficulties of the
coming interview, as he thought of Julia's high-toned beauty--perhaps
something also of her wealth and birth--and more strongly still as he
thought of her love for him, false, treacherous, selfish arguments
offered themselves to his mind--arguments which he knew to be false and
selfish. Which of them did he love? Could it be right for him to give
his hand without his heart? Could it really be good for Florence--poor
injured Florence, that she should be taken by a man who had ceased to
regard her more than all other women? Were he to marry her now, would
not that deceit be worse than the other deceit? Or, rather, would not
that be deceitful, whereas the other course would simply be
unfortunate--unfortunate through c