In favour of the former method of proceeding were, the comparative composure and hopelessness with which Robert had begun to regard his fate since Yeldham's unsuccessful expedition, the patience with which he acceded to Yeldham's advice that they should not unnecessarily discuss the matter of their most constant thoughts, and the consequent risk, in case all overtures should prove unavailing, of exciting Robert to dangerous agitation and increased grief. Yeldham understood Streightley better than Streightley understood himself; and when he would say, as he constantly did, that he would ask nothing more than to know where his wife was, to be sure that she was more content than he without her, that he had no hope of ever seeing her more, Yeldham knew that he entirely believed what he said, but that he deceived himself; and that with the first intelligence of Katharine new feelings would arise, whose disappointment would be terrible. Added to this, he knew that Robert could not plead his own cause as he, Charles Yeldham, would plead it for him; if she should refuse to see him, Robert, conscience-stricken, would not persevere. Thus the subject had two sides, and he had to regard first the one, and then the other, with great care and deliberation. He did so, and finally decided, all parts of the question balanced, that he would tell Robert he had received the letter for which they had looked so long in vain, and leave it to him to decide on what should be done. "If I went, and failed, he must know it sooner or later," was the result of Yeldham's cogitations; "so he may as well know about this at once." So Charles Yeldham wrote a note to Robert, requesting him to call on him late in the afternoon, when he should be comparatively at leisure, and proposing that they should dine together in the City afterwards. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind, as far as possible, and went to his "treadmill."