“Robarts, you will be sorry some day for the cruelty of your words.” “I wonder whether you will ever be sorry for the cruelty of your doings, or whether these things are really a joke to you.” “I am at this moment a ruined man,” said Sowerby. “Everything is going from me,—my place in the world, the estate of my family, my father’s house, my seat in Parliament, the power of living among my countrymen, or, indeed, of living anywhere;—but all this does not oppress me now so much as the misery which I have brought upon you.” And then Sowerby also turned away his face, and wiped from his eyes tears which were not artificial. Robarts was still walking up and down the room, but it was not possible for him to continue his reproaches after this. This is always the case. Let a man endure to heap contumely on his own head, and he will silence the contumely of others—for the moment. Sowerby, without meditating on the matter, had had some inkling of this, and immediately saw that there was at last an opening for conversation. “You are unjust to me,” said he, “in supposing that I have now no wish to save you. It is solely in the hope of doing so that I have come here.” “And what is your hope? That I should accept another brace of bills, I suppose.” “Not a brace; but one renewed bill for—” “Look here, Mr. Sowerby. On no earthly consideration that can be put before me will I again sign my name to any bill in the guise of an acceptance. I have been very weak, and am ashamed of my weakness; but so much strength as that, I hope, is left to me. I have been very wicked, and am ashamed of my wickedness; but so much right principle as that, I hope, remains. I will put my name to no other bill; not for you, not even for myself.” “But, Robarts, under your present circumstances that will be madness.” “Then I will be mad.” “Have you seen Forrest? If you will speak to him I think you will find that everything can be accommodated.” “I already owe Mr. Forrest a hundred and fifty pounds, which I obtained from him when you pressed me for the price of that horse, and I will not increase the debt. What a fool I was again there. Perhaps you do not remember that, when I agreed to buy the horse, the price was to be my contribution to the liquidation of these bills.” “I do remember it; but I will tell you how that was.” “It does not signify. It has been all of a piece.” “But listen to me. I think you would feel for me if you knew all that I have gone through. I pledge you my solemn word that I had no intention of asking you for the money when you took the horse;—indeed I had not. But you remember that affair of Lufton’s, when he came to you at your hotel in London and was so angry about an outstanding bill.” “I know that he was very unreasonable as far as I was concerned.”