‘The same as I thought last night. That she is a beautiful and noble woman, but that her past life has been overshadowed by some sad secret which we are never likely to know.’ ‘And you still warn me against her?’ ‘Still, with all my strength. Admire her, and respect her for all that is admirable in her nature, pity her for her misfortunes, but keep aloof.’ ‘Thanks for your remarkably disinterested advice,’ said Geoffrey, with a bitter laugh. ‘After devoting an hour of your precious time to this lady’s society, you arrive at the conclusion that she is the last woman in the world for me. Yet you pay that child an unnecessary visit this morning in order to see the mother once more, and you come to me with a face as pale as—as the countenance of treachery itself.’ ‘Geoffrey!’ ‘However, as I don’t mean to take your advice it makes very little difference. By the bye, here’s your fee, Lucius; I promised Mrs. Bertram to see to that.’ And he tried to thrust a folded cheque into the surgeon’s hand. This Lucius rejected with infinite scorn. ‘What! you first ask my opinion, then call me a traitor because it happens not to jump with your own fancy, and then offer me money for a service for which you must know I could never dream of accepting payment. How utterly this foolish infatuation has changed you! But I have no time for discussion. Good-bye. There goes the bell, and I have to get my ticket.’ They ran into the station. Geoffrey, penitent already, stuck close to his friend until Lucius was seated in the second-class carriage which was to take him back to London and hard labour. Then he stretched out his hand. ‘Shake hands, old fellow,’ he said, with a remorseful look; ‘of course I didn’t mean anything; or only in a Pickwickian sense. Good-bye.’ The train bore off its burden and left Geoffrey stranded on the platform, perplexed, unhappy. ‘I daresay he is right,’ he said to himself, ‘and I _know_ that he is a good fellow. Yet why did he stay so long with her, and why did he look so pale and thoughtful when I met him?’ CHAPTER X. A DAUGHTER’S LOVE, AND A LOVER’S HOPE. Lucius Davoren’s life had taken a new colour since that letter which opened the doors of the dismal old house in the Shadrack-road. His existence had now an object nearer to his human heart than even professional success. Dearly as he loved his profession, it is just possible that he loved himself a little better, and this new object, this new hope, concerned himself alone. Yet it did not in any manner distract him from his patient labours, from his indefatigable studies, but rather gave him a new incentive to industry. How better could he serve the interests of her whom he loved than by toiling steadily on upon the road which he believed must ultimately lead him to success, and even to fame—that far brighter reward than mere material prosperity?