Peter did not think that it had been noticed more than three times at the most; but he went on to offer his candid and sensible advice that Mr. Griffith should be placed in a family where there was a gentleman or lady who would have some hauthority, and could not be put aside with his good-’umoured haffability—‘You’re an old fogy, Peter.’ ‘Never mind, Nursey, I’ll be a good boy next time,’ and the like. ‘It is a disadvantage you see, sir, to have been in his service, and ’tis for the young gentleman’s own good as I speaks; but it would be better if he were somewheres else—unless you would speak to him, sir.’ To the almost needless question whether Clarence had been with his brother on these occasions, there was a most decided negative. He had never gone out with Griffith except once to the theatre, and to dine at the Castlefords, and at first he had sat up for his return, ‘but it led to words between the young gentlemen,’ said Peter, whose confidences were becoming reckless; and it appeared that when Clarence had found that Gooch would not let him spare her vigil, he had obeyed her orders and ceased to share it. Peter was thanked for the revelations, which had been a grievous effort to him, and dismissed. My father sat still in great distress and perplexity, asking me whether Clarence had ever told me anything of this, and I had barely time to answer ‘No’ before Clarence himself came in, from what Peter called his language-master. He was taking lessons in French and Spanish, finding a knowledge of these useful in business. To his extreme distress, my father fell on him at once, demanding what he knew of the way Griffith was spending his time, ‘coming home at all sorts of hours in a disreputable condition. No prevarication, sir,’ he added, as the only too familiar look of consternation and bewilderment came over Clarence’s face. ‘You are doing your brother no good by conniving at his conduct. Speak truth, if you can,’ he added, with more cruelty than he knew, in his own suffering. ‘Sir,’ gasped Clarence, ‘I know Griff often comes home after I am in bed, but I do not know the exact time, nor anything more.’ ‘Is this all you can tell me? Really all?’ ‘All I know—that is—of my own knowledge,’ said Clarence, recovering a little, but still unable to answer without hesitation, which vexed my father. ‘What do you mean by that? Do you hear nothing?’ ‘I am afraid,’ said Clarence, ‘that I do not see as much of him as I had hoped. He is not up till after I have to be at our place, and he does not often spend an evening at home. He is such a popular fellow, and has so many friends and engagements.’ ‘Ay, and of what sort? Can’t you tell? or will you not? I sent him up to you, thinking you a steady fellow who might influence him for good.’ The colour rushed into Clarence’s face, as he answered, looking up and speaking low, ‘Have I not forfeited all such hopes?’