Next came the practical part:--What was I to do? To right myself either in respect of their opinion, or in respect of my lost property, was more hopeless than important, and I hardly wasted two thoughts upon that. But I could not remain where I was, and soon came to the resolution to go with Charley to London at once, and taking lodgings in some obscure recess near the Inns of Court, there to give myself to work, and work alone, in the foolish hope that one day fame might buttress reputation. In this resolution I was more influenced by the desire to be near the brother of Mary Osborne than the desire to be near my friend Charley, strong as that was. I expected thus to hear of her oftener, and even cherished the hope of coming to hear from her--of inducing her to honour me with a word or two of immediate communication. For I could see no reason why her opinions should prevent her from corresponding with one who, whatever might or might not seem to him true, yet cared for the truth, and must treat with respect every form in which he could descry its predominating presence. I would have asked Charley to set out with me that very day, but for the desire to clear up the discrepancy between the date of my ancestor’s letters, all written within the same year, and that of the copy I had made of the registration of their marriage--with which object I would compare the copy and the original. I wished also to have some talk with Mr Coningham concerning the contents of the letters which at his urgency I had now read. I got up and wrote to him therefore, asking him to ride with me again to Umberden Church, as soon as he could make it convenient, and sent Styles off at once on the mare to carry the note to Minstercombe, and bring me back an answer. As we sat over our breakfast, Charley said suddenly, ‘Clara was regretting yesterday that she had not seen the Moat. She said you had asked her once, but had never spoken of it again.’ ‘And now I suppose she thinks, because I’m in disgrace with her friends at the Hall, that she mustn’t come near me,’ I said, with another bitterness than belonged to the words. ‘Wilfrid!’ he said reproachfully; ‘she didn’t say anything of the sort. I will write and ask her if she couldn’t contrive to come over. She might meet us at the park gates.’ ‘No,’ I returned; ‘there isn’t time. I mean to go back to London--perhaps to-morrow evening. It is like turning you out, Charley, but we shall be nearer each other in town than we were last time.’ ‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he said. ‘I had been thinking myself that I had better go back this evening. My father is expected home in a day or two, and it would be just like him to steal a march on my chambers. Yes, I think I shall go to-night.’ ‘Very well, old boy,’ I answered. ‘That will make it all right. It’s a pity we couldn’t take the journey together, but it doesn’t matter much. I shall follow you as soon as I can.’ ‘Why can’t you go with me?’ he asked.