“Woodcourt, my dear fellow,” cried Richard, starting up with extended hands, “you come upon my vision like a ghost.”

“A friendly one,” he replied, “and only waiting, as they say ghosts do, to be addressed.  How does the mortal world go?” They were seated now, near together.

“Badly enough, and slowly enough,” said Richard, “speaking at least for my part of it.”

“What part is that?”

“The Chancery part.”

“I never heard,” returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, “of its going well yet.”

“Nor I,” said Richard moodily.  “Who ever did?” He brightened again in a moment and said with his natural openness, “Woodcourt, I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it in your estimation.  You must know that I have done no good this long time.  I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else.  It may be that I should have done better by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked me, but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard, a very different opinion.  To make short of a long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object now—­or it has me—­and it is too late to discuss it.  Take me as I am, and make the best of me.”

“A bargain,” said Mr. Woodcourt.  “Do as much by me in return.”

“Oh!  You,” returned Richard, “you can pursue your art for its own sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and can strike a purpose out of anything.  You and I are very different creatures.”

He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary condition.

“Well, well!” he cried, shaking it off.  “Everything has an end.  We shall see!  So you will take me as I am, and make the best of me?”

“Aye!  Indeed I will.”  They shook hands upon it laughingly, but in deep earnestness.  I can answer for one of them with my heart of hearts.

“You come as a godsend,” said Richard, “for I have seen nobody here yet but Vholes.  Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty.  You can hardly make the best of me if I don’t.  You know, I dare say, that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?”

Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him.  “Now pray,” returned Richard, “don’t think me a heap of selfishness.  Don’t suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights and interests alone.  Ada’s are bound up with mine; they can’t be separated; Vholes works for both of us.  Do think of that!”

He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave him the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.

“You see,” said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner of lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, “to an upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours here, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean.  I want to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to do my utmost to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can scrape together to extricate her, as well as myself.  Do, I beseech you, think of that!”