“Well now, my son, I could see I was pressing with both feet on the loud pedal. ‘Mr. Dodson,’ said the old mug, ‘I would pay a thousand pounds to a charitable institution if I could really persuade myself that I did not leave that wretched money upon my table.’ Well, after that, Luney, I went in to win. Since I buttered him up over his Homer--the d---- silliest production, I understand, that ever was perpetrated--he has always listened to me with what he calls ‘respect.’ He considers me ‘a scholar and a gentleman’; he likes to consider everybody in this old-established house, from Pa to the ex-caretaker’s widow, who feeds the cat, to be ‘a scholar and a gentleman.’ Well, I went for the gloves; I gave him five minutes of regular John Bright, and wound up with a bit of dissertation on self-deception. And, would you believe it, Luney? the silly old cormorant wrung me warmly by the hand, and said if only for his own peace of mind he must admit that he had deceived himself. The money could not possibly have been there; he must have left it in his hansom; it must have fallen from his pocket in Saint James’s Square; in fact, there must be a hideous mistake somewhere; on no account must I mention it in the office. I must treat all the circumstances exactly as though they had never occurred. “Now, what do you say to that, my son? Of course it was all pretty useful work on the part of J. D. You see I guessed from the first that like all these ultra-pious church-and-chapel coves he was forcing himself to swallow that which he knew he had no right to swallow; and in the end he was able to convince himself it was ‘the right thing’ to swallow it rather than to admit the cold-drawn truth.” To the surprise of the triumphant Mr. Dodson, this description of the further miracle that had been wrought in his favour brought no kind of relief to the unhappy William Jordan. “T-there is still my shame,” he muttered. “You just put that out of your mind, my son,” said the philosopher. “Throw the money down a drain, and pretend, like Octavius, that the whole thing never occurred. Of course, if Octavius or any other of the ultra-pious sect were to overhear me, they would swear I was as guilty as you are. And so I am; I expect I am far the worse of the two. Because I don’t call you guilty. You are odd, weak, you have a tile or two loose, but I could never look on a chap like you as having deliberate guile. And I mean to stand by you, although I don’t know why I should. I have nothing to gain; in fact I have everything to lose by taking up with a chap like you. I don’t recognize J. D., who intends to get on in the world, no matter what it costs him, in my dealings with you. But there they are. As I say, my son, you are against my principles altogether; but the fact remains, Luney, that since I have come to take up with you, I don’t seem, somehow, as though I can let you go.”