Unless Lord Ongar were to die before then by God's hand, there could be no escape--and of such escape Harry Clavering had no thought.

He felt a weary, dragging soreness at his heart, and told himself that he must be miserable for-ever--not so miserable but what he would work, but so wretched that the world could have for him no satisfaction.
What could he do?
What thing could he achieve so that she should know that he did not let her go from him without more thought than his poor words had expressed?
He was perfectly aware that in their conversation she had had the best of the argument--that he had talked almost like a boy, while she had talked quite like a woman.

She had treated him de haut en bas with all that superiority which youth and beauty give to a young woman over a very young man.

What could he do?
Before he returned to the rectory, he had made up his mind what he would do, and on the following morning Julia Brabazon received by the hands of her maid the following note: "I think I understood all that you said to me yesterday.
At any rate, I understand that you have one trouble left, and that I have the means of curing it." In the first draft of his letter he said something about ushering, but that he omitted afterwards.

"You may be assured that the inclosed is all my own, and that it is entirely at my own disposal.