"Good Heavens!" said Mr. West, really
agitated, "what do you mean?"

"What do I mean?  I mean that I am glad
and proud to know it; more glad than if I had
one of their fifty thousand-franc pieces in my
hand this moment.  My dear West, do you
suppose a man like me, that has knocked about
browbeaten witnesses, and been browbeat
myself by infernal tyrants of judges—that have
been playing 'catch you, catch me,' with duns
all my life—do you suppose I haven't learnt
the use of my eyes yet?  Ah, West, my dear
fellow! I assure you, when I found it out, it sent
a film of joy into this battered heart of mine."

"But," said Mr. West, now really agitated,
"I must ask you to speak out—to be more clear.
I may have an idea, but——"

"My dear, kind, old friend," said Mr. Dacres,
rising to take his hand, "she loves you; my Lulu
loves you with the whole of her fresh young
heart; and I vow," he added, suddenly turning
jocose, "I could just strike up 'Tol de lol lol,' like
the old fathers in the play, I am so glad of it!"

Mr. West was now collected and cold.  "I
should be delighted if it were so," he said; "but
I may ask, how do you know—how are you sure?"

"My dear fellow, we are both men of the
world—at least you are.  I have picked up
something in my day—but no matter.  What
I have told you I know.  I assure you I have
thought the thing over often the long nights
when they had me in that quod of a place over
there.  And when I considered what was to
become of them if I was removed in any
other way, it used to drive me mad almost.
Then I used to pray some good, sensible,
practical, matured man would be raised up,
that my little Lulu could lean on; not a
whipper-snapper who would neglect her, perhaps,
or use her ill; but a man, young, too, but past
folly.  I don't care about myself.  I am weary
of the whole thing.  But it would be a comfort
to me to know she was being taken care of."

"Most true and a most just feeling," said the
other, hurriedly; "but one thing I should
like to know.  On what is all this founded?
For there should be something more——"

"Well, I'll tell you; and I don't care about
the shame of it.  But candour is my maxim.
I know what you'll say—unfair, shabby, and all
that.  So it was.  But I couldn't help it.  I
had a struggle for it. But I am a weak, helpless
creature when it comes to that.  Well,
West, see here.  This is the poor little thing's
diary——"

"Oh!" said Mr. West, starting back; "you
couldn't bring yourself to pry into that——"

"I knew he'd take it this way," said Mr.
Dacres, sadly.  "I am a wretched fellow, I
know.  But here it is for you in her own black
and white: 'I am fighting against the influence'
—the creature.  'He controls me with a
look'——"

"I cannot," said Mr. West, walking about
in great agitation.  "You must not try me in this
way.  It was very wrong.  It is not fair to her."

"No more it is," said Mr. Dacres, gazing at
the book with a sort of stupid ruefulness; "no
more it is.  See here again: 'I was rude to
him, because I dare not trust myself.'  Well,
all I say is, take what view you like of it, West.
I know it's all for you, and that's what I've to
say.  I couldn't see her wasting before my eyes
and not interfere, even in my own awkward
way.  I mean well.  But there's the truth for
you; and whatever way you take it, my dear
fellow, it will be all one to the poor devil now
addressing you, who hasn't a napoleon at this
moment he can call his own."

That impoverished condition of things did not
last more than five minutes, when a happier
train of thought set in.

"You are a good angel, a generous friend
indeed; and I'll never forget your kindness."

"Don't mention it," said Mr. West, hastily;
"but I hardly know what to say or to do.  All
I beg of you is, do nothing more in the matter
—for a time, at least.  I would not for the
world there should be interference with her."

"Take time—that's just what I want.  Not
a blessed word shall pass my lips, you may
depend.  But come up as usual; mind, we'll
look out for you.  Come to-day at four, and
talk to them, for I am not in spirits."

When Dacres had gone, West, as it were,
resolved himself into a council.  Gauging, as he
did to the utmost nicety, the height and depth,
the habitual exaggeration, of Mr. Dacres, he felt,
by comparison of other things with the letter
of the night before, that what he had described
must be true.  Applying the same test—her
looks, her strange embarrassments, her wilfulness,
and impatience—considering these as he
would a legal case sent to him for advice and
opinion, he could not but feel that he had some
warrant for his wishes.  But when he came to
picture her in that dismal home, with that
father who, barely tolerable now in his strange
fluctuations of good humour and maudlin
depression, would with years grow worse, and turn
their house into an abode of tipsy squalor and
disorder—the most miserable surrounding in the
world for a young creature.  Then those odious
words of his sister—"at your time of life," and
"double her age"—came back on him with a sort
of chill; but again he brought his quiet legal
examination to bear, putting the most strength
against himself.  After all, he surprised
himself saying "Forty-two is not an old man."

Mr. Dacres went home with alacrity, merely
pausing on his way to have a little sup of the
cherry B, the only thing, as he said, that could
put heart into a poor persecuted creature like
himself.  But he was now in spirits.

"By Jove!" he said, "I think I hit the jury
hard there.  That touch about the diary would
have carried the case; it was risky, Dacres,
my lad, but beautifully done—exquisitely neat.
Here's the use of knowing human nature.  I
knew he'd be too high-toned, too delicate, to
look at my Loo's scribbling.  So far, so good.
But I have the real pinch before me now."

What the real pinch was we shall see shortly.