“It has stood between us, Gervase.” “Horribly! but now I feel again my own man,--every penny is paid.” “And you have nothing, Gervase.” “I have the house--which of course I must sell, and all that is in it. That will leave me a few thousands better than nothing. Madeline, what will your father say? I do not ask--perhaps I ought--what do you say?” “Gervase--I thought you had ceased to mind what I thought.” “Ceased to mind! I never minded so much. If I wanted you before, Maddie, I want you ten thousand times more now. Don’t you understand, how the worst of it all was, that this abominable business absorbed me, enthralled me, so that I could think of nothing else. Now it is over, for ever and ever, thank God. Cease to mind! _You_ never thought that.” She gave his hand a little pressure, a mute apology, and all the heavy clouds that had been veiling her horizon flew away like mists before the winds. “But,” he said, pillowing his cheek upon that soft hand, leaning upon her with a sense of indescribable rest and consolation,”--your father? What are we to do? how are we to manage? I see all the difficulties. I grudge you to a poor man as much as he does--but I cannot give you up, Madeline.” “Nobody asked you,” she said, with a smile. Madeline felt that she would break down altogether if she did not keep up the lighter tone. “And what will he say to a man who has nothing in the world but a house in Harley Street?” Gervase said. “What am I to say to him? What am I to do?” “That is the first question,” she said. “What are you to do? The house in Harley Street means--something.” “I can’t let it out in lodgings, can I, Madeline?--or take boarders: or set up a school--though many men do that.” “Do you ever think--they say you proved yourself so good a man of business,” said Madeline, with hesitation,--“do you ever think, Gervase, of putting the money--into----” “Business! I loathe it more than ever,” he cried. “I hate the very name!” Madeline gave vent to a gentle sigh. “My father would be more pleased with that than anything,” she said. “Everything, I think, might have been smoothed away. He thinks you did so well--in the West Indies, Gervase.” “Did I do well? fighting against chicanery, dishonesty, fraudulent delays, fictitious excuses, everything that is most abhorrent to an honest man: they think it all fair, that is the worst of it. If they can disgust and sicken you, and make you think that no rights are worth that struggle, then they rejoice. That is their object all the time. A hundred times I was on the eve of throwing up the whole business, crying, Perish your filthy money! and flying to you to save me from cynicism and misanthropy and scorn of every kind.” “But you did not fly. You stood fast and conquered, Gervase.” “A poor victory,” he said, shaking his head, “and one only because they roused the worst part of my nature. I don’t know what I might develop into were I to carry on that cursed battle.” “Gervase!”