“Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?” said my guardian.

“Most assuredly not!” said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him on the shoulder with an air of protection that had something serious in it, though he laughed.  “He will stand by the low boy, always.  Jarndyce, you may rely upon him!  But speaking of this trespass—­ with apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have pursued so dry a subject—­is there nothing for me from your men Kenge and Carboy?”

“I think not, Esther?” said Mr. Jarndyce.

“Nothing, guardian.”

“Much obliged!” said Mr. Boythorn.  “Had no need to ask, after even my slight experience of Miss Summerson’s forethought for every one about her.” (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do it.) “I inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course have not yet been in town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down here.  I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning.”

I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and a satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat at a little distance from the piano listening to the music—­and he had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music, for his face showed it—­that I asked my guardian as we sat at the backgammon board whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married.

“No,” said he.  “No.”

“But he meant to be!” said I.

“How did you find out that?” he returned with a smile.  “Why, guardian,” I explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding what was in my thoughts, “there is something so tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and —­”

Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have just described him.

I said no more.

“You are right, little woman,” he answered.  “He was all but married once.  Long ago.  And once.”

“Did the lady die?”

“No—­but she died to him.  That time has had its influence on all his later life.  Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of romance yet?”

“I think, guardian, I might have supposed so.  But it is easy to say that when you have told me so.”

“He has never since been what he might have been,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant and his little yellow friend.  It’s your throw, my dear!”

I felt, from my guardian’s manner, that beyond this point I could not pursue the subject without changing the wind.  I therefore forbore to ask any further questions.  I was interested, but not curious.  I thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when I was awakened by Mr. Boythorn’s lusty snoring; and I tried to do that very difficult thing, imagine old people young again and invested with the graces of youth.  But I fell asleep before I had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when I lived in my godmother’s house.  I am not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects to know whether it is at all remarkable that I almost always dreamed of that period of my life.