John had spoken quite as much, indeed more, in Brandon’s interest than in Valentine’s.  The manner in which the elder had suffered the younger to make himself agreeable and engage himself to Dorothea Graham, and how, when he believed she loved him, he had made it possible for them to marry, were partly known to him and partly surmised.  And now it seemed in mockery of everything that was decent, becoming, and fair that the one who had forsaken her should represent himself as having waked, after a short delusion, and discovered that he loved her still, letting his brother know this, and perhaps all the world.  Such would be a painful and humiliating position also for the bride.  It might even affect the happiness of the newly-married pair; but John did not wish to hint at these graver views of the subject; he was afraid to give them too much importance, and he confidently reckoned on Valentine’s volatile disposition to stand his friend, and soon enable him to get over his attachment.  All that seemed wanting was some degree of present discretion.

“John, I acknowledge that you are right,” repeated Valentine, after an interval of thought.

“You acknowledge—­now we have probed this subject and got to the bottom of it—­that it demands of you absolute silence, and at first some discretion?”

“Yes; that is settled.”

“You mean to take my view?”

“Yes, I do.”

As he stood some time lost in thought, John let him alone and began to write, till, thinking he had pondered enough, he looked up and alluded to the business Valentine had come about.

“You may as well tell it me, unless you want to take my father into your council also:  he will be here soon.”

“No; I thought it would be more right if I spoke to you first, John, before my uncle heard of it,” said Valentine.

“Because it is likely to concern me longer?” asked John.

“Yes; you see what I mean; I should like, if uncle and you would let me, to go into the bank; I mean as a clerk—­nothing more, of course.”

“I should want some time to consider that matter,” said John.  “I was half afraid you would propose this, Val.  It’s so like you to take the easiest thing that offers.”

“Is it on my account or on your own that you shall take time?”

“On both.  So far as you are concerned, it is no career to be a banker’s clerk.”

“No; but, John, though I hardly ever think of it, I cannot always forget that there is only one life between me and Melcombe.”

“Very true,” said John coolly; “but if it is ill waiting for a dead man’s shoes, what must it be waiting for a dead child’s shoes?”

“I do not even wish or care to be ever more than a clerk,” said Valentine; “but that, I think, would fill up my time pleasantly.”

“Between this and what?”

“Between this and the time when I shall have finally decided what I will do.  I think eventually I shall go abroad.”