Algernon took a chair.  Edward was fathoms deep in his book.

The former continued:  “I’d touch on the money-question last, with any other fellow than you; but you always know that money’s the hinge, and nothing else lifts a man out of a scrape.  It costs a stiff pull on your banker, and that reminds me, you couldn’t go to Sir Billy for it; you’d have to draw in advance, by degrees anyhow, look here:—­There are lots of young farmers who want to emigrate and want wives and money.  I know one.  It’s no use going into particulars, but it’s worth thinking over.  Life is made up of mutual help, Ned.  You can help another fellow better than yourself.  As for me, when I’m in a hobble, I give you my word of honour, I’m just like a baby, and haven’t an idea at my own disposal.  The same with others.  You can’t manage without somebody’s assistance.  What do you say, old boy?”

Edward raised his head from his book.  “Some views of life deduced from your private experience?” he observed; and Algernon cursed at book-worms, who would never take hints, and left him.

But when he was by himself, Edward pitched his book upon the floor and sat reflecting.  The sweat started on his forehead.  He was compelled to look into his black volume and study it.  His desire was to act humanely and generously; but the question inevitably recurred:  “How can I utterly dash my prospects in the world?” It would be impossible to bring Dahlia to great houses; and he liked great houses and the charm of mixing among delicately-bred women.  On the other hand, lawyers have married beneath them—­married cooks, housemaids, governesses, and so forth.  And what has a lawyer to do with a dainty lady, who will constantly distract him with finicking civilities and speculations in unprofitable regions?  What he does want is a woman amiable as a surface of parchment, serviceable as his inkstand; one who will be like the wig in which he closes his forensic term, disreputable from overwear, but suited to the purpose.

“Ah! if I meant to be nothing but a lawyer!” Edward stopped the flow of this current in Dahlia’s favour.  His passion for her was silent.  Was it dead?  It was certainly silent.  Since Robert had come down to play his wild game of persecution at Fairly, the simple idea of Dahlia had been Edward’s fever.  He detested brute force, with a finely-witted man’s full loathing; and Dahlia’s obnoxious champion had grown to be associated in his mind with Dahlia.  He swept them both from his recollection abhorrently, for in his recollection he could not divorce them.  He pretended to suppose that Dahlia, whose only reproach to him was her suffering, participated in the scheme to worry him.  He could even forget her beauty—­forget all, save the unholy fetters binding him.  She seemed to imprison him in bare walls.  He meditated on her character.  She had no strength.  She was timid, comfort-loving, fond of luxury, credulous,