“My dear sir, I could not think of exposing you to a repetition of such inclement weather as you have already encountered.  I am well supplied here, my young friend—­I think I may use the term, considering that two generations ago, at least, a mutual friendship existed between the houses, which, however obscured for a time—­hum—­ hum—­hum—­may be said still to exist towards my dear friend’s very amiable young daughter; and although I may have regretted as hasty and premature a decision that, as her oldest and most experienced—­I may say paternal—­friend, I ventured to question—­you will excuse my plain speaking; I am always accustomed to utter my sentiments freely-—­yet on better acquaintance—­brought about as it was in a manner which, however peculiar, and, I may say, unpleasant—­cannot do otherwise than command my perpetual gratitude—­I am induced to revoke a verdict, uttered, perhaps, rather with a view to the antecedents than to the individuals, and to express a hope that the ancient family ties may again assert themselves, and that I may again address as such Mr. Alison of Arghouse.”

That speech absolutely cleared the field of Harold and Dermot both.  One strode, the other backed, to the door, Dermot hastily said, “Good-bye then, uncle, I shall look you up to-morrow, but I must go and stop George St. Glear,” and Harold made no further ceremony, but departed under his cover.

Probably, Richardson had spoken a word or two in our favour to his former master, for, when Lord Erymanth was relieved from his nephew’s trying presence, he was most gracious, and his harangues, much as they had once fretted me, had now a familiar sound, as proving that we were no longer “at the back of the north wind,” while Eustace listened with rapt attention, both to the long words and to anything coming from one whose name was enrolled in his favourite volume; who likewise discovered in him likenesses to generations past of Alisons, and seemed ready to admit him to all the privileges for which he had been six months pining.

At the first opportunity, Lord Erymanth began to me, “My dear Lucy, it is a confession that to some natures may seem humiliating, but I have so sedulously cultivated candour for my whole term of existence, that I hope I may flatter myself that I am not a novice in the great art of retracting a conclusion arrived at under premises which, though probable, have proved to be illusory.  I therefore freely confess that I have allowed probability to weigh too much with me in my estimation of these young men.”  I almost jumped for joy as I cried out that I knew he would think so when he came to know them.