Hilda rose and swept back her dress. 'I feel an immense sense of relief,' she said. 'The dear child's happiness is all I desire. Perhaps if you were to dismiss the young man immediately, with ignominy, and were to refuse him a written character on the ground of trying to win the affections of a girl infinitely above him in station, it might produce a good effect on Elsie--showing what you think of it--as well as an excellent lesson for himself and his friends. There is no romance about a cast-off clerk. Will you think of this, Mr. Dering? The mere threat of such a thing might make him ready to give her up; and it might make her inclined for his own sake to send him about his business.' 'I will think of it, Hilda.--By the way, will you and my brother dine with me on Monday, unless you are engaged? We can talk over this little affair then at leisure.' 'With pleasure. We are only engaged for the evening. Now I won't keep you any longer.--Good-bye.' She walked away, smiling graciously on the clerks in the outer office, and descended the stairs to the carriage, which waited below. Mr. Dering returned to his papers. He was not changed in the eight years since the stormy interview with this young lady's brother: his small whiskers were a little whiter: his iron-gray hair was unchanged; his lips were as firm and his nostrils as sharp, his eyes as keen as then. The room looked out pleasantly upon the garden of New Square, where the sunshine lay warm upon the trees with their early summer leaves. Sunshine or rain, all the year round, the solicitor sat in his high-backed chair before his great table. He sat there this morning working steadily until he had got through what he was about. Then he looked at his watch. It was past two o'clock. He touched a bell on the table, and his old clerk came in. Though he was the same age as his master, Checkley looked a great deal older. He was bald, save for a small white patch over each ear; he was bent, and his hands trembled. His expression was sharp, foxy, and suspicious. He stood in the unmistakable attitude of a servant, hands hanging in readiness, head a little bent. 'The clerks are all gone, I suppose?' said Mr. Dering. 'All gone. All they think about when they come in the morning is how soon they will get away. As for any pride in their work, they haven't got it.' 'Let them go.--Checkley, I have wanted to speak to you for some time.' 'Anything the matter?' The old clerk spoke with the familiarity of long service which permits the expression of opinions. 'The time has come, Checkley, when we must make a change.' 'A change? Why--I do my work as well as ever I did--better than any of the younger men. A change?' 'The change will not affect you.' 'It must be for you then. Surely you're never going to retire!' 'No--I mean to hold on as long as I can. That will only be for a year or two at most. I am seventy-five, Checkley.'