“Well, and well. I take you on clause two of your reasoning. If, in being careless of your own salvation, you are careless of that of others (and surely it so follows, having regard to precept and influence), you are selfish. But, if you think of others, you are not careless of your own; for no man would of his true generosity help his neighbour to that which he himself scorns. Now, the manner of your purposed exit; the unexampled sweetness, sir, with which you have met my most impertinent intrusion, convince me that you are far from feeling a careless indifference to your fellows.” “I have a measure of good-humour. I would not kick the stool from under my neighbour because I sit upon a stone. But the first test of humour is to know itself bested; to succumb to the finer wit--and that the devil hath shown.” “Disprove him. He hath stood so long in his own shadow that he fancies himself a giant. He tiptoes against the setting sun, and his dead image seems to embrace the world. Upset him, and he lies but a pigmy.” “My friend, he is not to be felled but by the stone of godliness. That I never possessed, for it is not purchasable. And if it were, my pouch is empty.” “Yet you gave, in hard cash, ten guineas for this crank vessel that is worth----” “It was my all--I swear it. And now I have bought Charon’s ferry-boat, and future souls must swim. Not much consideration for my neighbour in that.” “So I have said nought to move you from your purpose?” “I greatly regret--nothing.” The spare stranger groaned. “It shall be a lesson to my self-sufficiency. Well, sir, I must play a better card.” “If you please.” “Run the boat into the hard there, and accompany me to my office. I will hand you the title-deeds of an estate that shall give you a new lease of life.” CHAPTER III. Like one who accepts an indifferent gift, rather to pleasure a friend than for his own gratification, Sir Robert Linne held his reprieve in his pocket, as it were, with a careless hand, and, accompanied by the lawyer, re-entered the humming lists of life. Silently the two made their way westwards, the man of deeds accommodating his pace, with some secret chafing, to the leisurely progress of his companion. Now and again he would glance stealthily aside into the latter’s face, and give a half-comical shrug of chagrin over its expression of tranquil good-humour that seemed such a genial satire upon the situation. “If he hobnobs with death so calmly, how will his philosophy accept a living estate?” thought the uneasy scrivener; and, “light come, light go,” he groaned in his heart. Presently they were in Holborn, without the rag of a sentence to pass between them; and so came opposite the block of houses known as Middle Row. Here suddenly Sir Robert stopped, and took his companion by the arm.