Mr. Treffry grunted. “Ah, well! I like to know where I am. If I lend money to a man, I like to know whether he's going to pay it back; I may not care whether he does or not, but I like to know. The same with other things. I don't care what a man has—though, mind you, Chris, it's not a bad rule that measures men by the balance at their banks; but when it comes to marriage, there's a very simple rule, What's not enough for one is not enough for two. You can't talk black white, or bread into your mouth. I don't care to speak about myself, as you know, Chris, but I tell you this—when I came to London I wanted to marry—I hadn't any money, and I had to want. When I had the money—but that's neither here nor there!” He frowned, fingering his pipe. “I didn't ask her, Chris; I didn't think it the square thing; it seems that's out of fashion!” Christian's cheeks were burning. “I think a lot while I lie here,” Mr. Treffry went on; “nothing much else to do. What I ask myself is this: What do you know about what's best for you? What do you know of life? Take it or leave it, life's not all you think; it's give and get all the way, a fair start is everything.” Christian thought: 'Will he never see?' Mr. Treffry went on: “I get better every day, but I can't last for ever. It's not pleasant to lie here and know that when I'm gone there'll be no one to keep a hand on the check string!” “Don't talk like that, dear!” Christian murmured. “It's no use blinking facts, Chris. I've lived a long time in the world; I've seen things pretty well as they are; and now there's not much left for me to think about but you.” “But, Uncle, if you loved him, as I do, you couldn't tell me to be afraid! It's cowardly and mean to be afraid. You must have forgotten!” Mr. Treffry closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said; “I'm old.” The fan had dropped into Christian's lap; it rested on her white frock like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it. Mr. Treffry looked at her. “Have you heard from him?” he asked with sudden intuition. “Last night, in that room, when you thought I was talking to Dominique—” The pipe fell from his hand. “What!” he stammered: “Back?” Christian, without looking up, said: “Yes, he's back; he wants me—I must go to him, Uncle.” There was a long silence. “You must go to him?” he repeated. She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that to move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands. Mr. Treffry spoke: “You'll let me know—before—you—go. Goodnight!” Christian stole out into the passage. A bead curtain rustled in the draught; voices reached her. “My honour is involved, or I would give the case up.”