‘It is not what I should have wished,’ said the old gentleman; ‘in short, it is the last place I should have chosen. But I did not think of that soon enough, and, after Mr. Cattley has been so kind as to make all the inquiries---- What can it matter, after all? That or any other place. It will be just the same. I can’t think that there is any more danger there than anywhere else. And, things have gone so far, I don’t see how we can draw back.’ ‘Oh, John Sandford!’ cried his wife, ‘it is not possible. I can never, never consent. What! After all we have suffered, and all the sacrifices we have made, to send him back there!’ ‘I know, I know,’ said the old gentleman, with a deprecatory wave of his hands. ‘It is all true; but still, what can we do? A long time has passed, and he is going back without any---- No, I know very well what you would say: but if you will look at it reasonably----’ ‘How can I look at it reasonably? And do you think Emily will be reasonable? She will never consent, and neither will I.’ ‘But, my dear, my dear!’ he said, ‘it is all settled, and how can I go back?’ John had listened to this conversation with a surprise which gradually grew into something like indignation. ‘Grandmamma,’ he said, coming forward to the sofa, ‘I don’t want to seem wiser than you, or as if I knew better; but why should you be so afraid to trust me? I have never done anything to make you afraid. I don’t think I want pleasure or anything that is wrong. I will try to do my duty either at Liverpool or anywhere else. Don’t, please, think that I shall forget everything you have taught me, and all that I have been brought up to, the moment I go away.’ Both the old people had their eyes fixed on him as he spoke, and then they looked at each other across him, with one of those looks which he had so often caught in the passing, looks which it had always been hard to understand. Whatever it was, their eyes spoke to each other, not to him, with a sort of troubled commentary between them on what he said. Grandfather shook his head slightly in answer to his wife’s look, and he cleared his throat as if for something he wanted, but did not know how, to say--but in the end it was she who spoke. ‘Oh, John, it is not that, my dear. We do trust you, both grandfather and I. It isn’t that. I’m always of a tremble when I see an innocent boy go out into the world. Oh, yes, I allow I am, John: and for you, because you’re so precious, most of all; but it’s not that--oh, no, it’s not that.’ ‘What is it, then? What is there so dreadful about Liverpool?’ That look passed between them again--but this time there was a warning in the husband’s eyes. He turned round in his chair towards where John stood.