‘You are rigid with me, and I deserve it. I am as worthless a dog as you will find, except that I am not false—not false. But you surprised and started me from my subject, which was your brother. I have an interest in him.’ ‘Have you an interest in anything, Mr. Harthouse?’ she asked, half incredulously and half gratefully. ‘If you had asked me when I first came here, I should have said no. I must say now—even at the hazard of appearing to make a pretence, and of justly awakening your incredulity—yes.’ She made a slight movement, as if she were trying to speak, but could not find voice; at length she said, ‘Mr. Harthouse, I give you credit for being interested in my brother.’ ‘Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You know how little I do claim, but I will go that length. You have done so much for him, you are so fond of him; your whole life, Mrs. Bounderby, expresses such charming self-forgetfulness on his account—pardon me again—I am running wide of the subject. I am interested in him for his own sake.’ She had made the slightest action possible, as if she would have risen in a hurry and gone away. He had turned the course of what he said at that instant, and she remained. ‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ he resumed, in a lighter manner, and yet with a show of effort in assuming it, which was even more expressive than the manner he dismissed; ‘it is no irrevocable offence in a young fellow of your brother’s years, if he is heedless, inconsiderate, and expensive—a little dissipated, in the common phrase. Is he?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Allow me to be frank. Do you think he games at all?’ ‘I think he makes bets.’ Mr. Harthouse waiting, as if that were not her whole answer, she added, ‘I know he does.’ ‘Of course he loses?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Everybody does lose who bets. May I hint at the probability of your sometimes supplying him with money for these purposes?’ She sat, looking down; but, at this question, raised her eyes searchingly and a little resentfully. ‘Acquit me of impertinent curiosity, my dear Mrs. Bounderby. I think Tom may be gradually falling into trouble, and I wish to stretch out a helping hand to him from the depths of my wicked experience.—Shall I say again, for his sake? Is that necessary?’ She seemed to try to answer, but nothing came of it. ‘Candidly to confess everything that has occurred to me,’ said James Harthouse, again gliding with the same appearance of effort into his more airy manner; ‘I will confide to you my doubt whether he has had many advantages. Whether—forgive my plainness—whether any great amount of confidence is likely to have been established between himself and his most worthy father.’ ‘I do not,’ said Louisa, flushing with her own great remembrance in that wise, ‘think it likely.’ ‘Or, between himself, and—I may trust to your perfect understanding of my meaning, I am sure—and his highly esteemed brother-in-law.’