This finished, it appeared that Harold wanted to have a letter finished to Prometesky which he had begun some days before.  This astonished me more, both by the questions Prometesky had been asking, and the answers Harold was returning, as to the state of the country and the condition of the people.  They did much to relieve my mind of the fears I had sometimes entertained of Harold’s being a ferocious demagogue incited thereto by his friend.

Who would have thought there was so much depth in his brain?  He ended by saying, “Eustace takes kindly to his new position, and is gone today to see Mr. Tracy, nephew to Lord Erymanth, but who does not appear disposed to carry on the same hostility to us.”

I exclaimed at his having said nothing of the lion either to his mother or his friend, and asked leave to add it, which he did not refuse, though saying there was no use in it, and that he wanted me to do one thing more for him—­namely, to write to his agent in Sydney an order which he signed for the transmission of some money to England.  He had learnt from Mr. Yolland that morning that the “Dragon’s Head” and some adjoining houses at Mycening were for sale, and that the purchaser could have immediate possession.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Shut it up.”

“You can’t do much good by shutting up one public-house.”

“Eustace will do the same with those on his property.”

“I am very much afraid your crusade will not succeed, unless you can put something better into people’s minds.”

“I shall see about that,” he answered, thinking, I believe, that I was going to suggest religion, from all mention of which he shrank, as if it touched a wound.  “Smith talked of religion,” he once said, with a shudder.  Besides, he was a creature in the superabundance of all human faculties to whom their exercise seemed for a time all-sufficient, and the dark shade of horror and remorse in the depths of his heart made him unwilling to look back or think.  At any rate, he silenced me on that head; but, thinking, perhaps, that he had been unkindly blunt, he resumed, “There is no risk for Eustace in this acquaintance?”

In spite of the pang that smote me, I felt that this was the only time I might have for that word of warning which seemed incumbent on me.  “I do not think there is danger in his going to-day, but it does seem right to tell you that poor Dermot Tracy is said to be very extravagant, and to lead a wild life.  And Harold, though I have known him all my life, I have been thinking that it will not do for me to be here, if this should become a resort of the set of people he has made friends of.”

Harold answered in his steady, grave way, “I see.  But, Lucy, I suppose none of them have been so bad as I have been?”—­rather as if he were wondering over the matter.

“But you belong to me,” I answered, and I saw a look of real pleasure meet my smile.