“Theodore,” he said suddenly, “you have not yet come face to face with all the problems of life. Perhaps you have not yet found out how hard it is to help people. I would have given much to be able to help that girl—to assure her an easy and reputable existence—the refinements of life amidst pleasant surroundings. What would it matter to me whether I allowed her one hundred or two hundred a year? All I desire is that her life should be happy. And of deliberate malice—of sheer perversity—she rejects my help, she dooms herself to the seamstress’ slavery, and to a garret in Lambeth. My God, to think that with all the will and all the power to help her, I cannot come between her and that sordid misery. It is hard, Theodore, it is very hard upon a man like me. There is nothing I hold of this world’s goods that I have not worked for honestly; and when I want to do good for others with what I have won, I am barred by their folly. It is enough to make me mad.” Never before had Theodore seen this self-abandonment in his stately cousin, the man who bore in every tone and every gesture the impress of his acknowledged ascendency over his fellow-men. To see such a man as this so completely unhinged by a woman’s perversity was a new thing to Theodore Dalbrook; and his heart went out to his kinsman as it had never done before. “My dear Cheriton, you have done all that was in your power to do for that mistaken young woman,” he said, holding out his hand, which the elder man grasped warmly. “Whatever wrong you may have unwittingly brought about by the presence of a blackguard under your roof, you have done your best to atone for that wrong. The most sensitive, the most punctilious of men could do no more.” “I thank you, Theodore, for your sympathy. Yes, I have done my best for her—you will bear witness to that.” “A father could scarcely do more for an erring daughter. I only wish her mother felt half as kindly towards her as you, upon whom her claim is so slight.” “No, no; it is a substantial claim. She is fatherless, and her mother is dependent upon me. I stand, as it were, _in loco parentis_. Well, we will say no more about her; she must go her own way. Only, if ever you find an opportunity of helping her—for me, you will do me a great favour by taking prompt advantage of it.” “I shall gladly do so. I am interested in her for her own sake, as well as for yours.” “You are a good fellow, Theodore, and I know you wish us well. I will go a step further than that and say I know that I can trust you.” This was said with an earnestness which impressed Theodore. It seemed to him almost as if his kinsman foresaw that inevitable hour in which there must be perfect unreserve between them—in which the younger man would have to say to his senior and superior in rank, “I know the secret of your earlier years. I know the dark cloud that has overshadowed your life.”