“You know,” says Mr. Vholes, “that I never give hopes, sir.  I told you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes.  Particularly in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I gave hopes.  It might seem as if costs were my object.  Still, when you say there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter of fact, deny that.”

“Aye?” returns Richard, brightening.  “But how do you make it out?”

“Mr. Carstone, you are represented by—­”

“You said just now—­a rock.”

“Yes, sir,” says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust on dust, “a rock.  That’s something.  You are separately represented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others.  That’s something.  The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk it about.  That’s something.  It’s not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as in name.  That’s something.  Nobody has it all his own way now, sir.  And that’s something, surely.”

Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his clenched hand.

“Mr. Vholes!  If any man had told me when I first went to John Jarndyce’s house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he seemed—­that he was what he has gradually turned out to be—­I could have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I could not have defended him too ardently.  So little did I know of the world!  Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodiment of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is John Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him; that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new injury from John Jarndyce’s hand.”

“No, no,” says Vholes.  “Don’t say so.  We ought to have patience, all of us.  Besides, I never disparage, sir.  I never disparage.”

“Mr. Vholes,” returns the angry client.  “You know as well as I that he would have strangled the suit if he could.”

“He was not active in it,” Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance of reluctance.  “He certainly was not active in it.  But however, but however, he might have had amiable intentions.  Who can read the heart, Mr. C.!”

“You can,” returns Richard.

“I, Mr. C.?”

“Well enough to know what his intentions were.  Are or are not our interests conflicting?  Tell—­me—­that!” says Richard, accompanying his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.

“Mr. C.,” returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never winking his hungry eyes, “I should be wanting in my duty as your professional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to your interests, if I represented those interests as identical with the interests of Mr. Jarndyce.  They are no such thing, sir.  I never impute motives; I both have and am a father, and I never impute motives.  But I must not shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in families.  I understand you to be now consulting me professionally as to your interests?  You are so?  I reply, then, they are not identical with those of Mr. Jarndyce.”