“Oh, no, my lord.”

“But I say, oh, yes;” and the earl, who was now standing on the rug before the fire, dug his hands deep down into his trousers’ pockets.  “I’m very fond of that girl, and would do much for her.  You ask Lady Julia if I didn’t say so to her before I ever knew of your casting a sheep’s-eye that way.  And I’ve a sneaking kindness for you too, Master Johnny.  Lord bless you, I knew your father as well as I ever knew any man; and to tell the truth, I believe I helped to ruin him.  He held land of me, you know, and there can’t be any doubt that he did ruin himself.  He knew no more about a beast when he’d done, than—­than—­than that waiter.  If he’d gone on to this day he wouldn’t have been any wiser.”

Johnny sat silent, with his eyes full of tears.  What was he to say to his friend?

“You come down with me,” continued the earl, “and you’ll find we’ll make it all straight.  I daresay you’re right about not speaking to the girl just at present.  But tell everything to the uncle, and then to the mother.  And, above all things, never think that you’re not good enough yourself.  A man should never think that.  My belief is that in life people will take you very much at your own reckoning.  If you are made of dirt, like that fellow Crosbie, you’ll be found out at last, no doubt.  But then I don’t think you are made of dirt.”

“I hope not.”

“And so do I. You can come down, I suppose, with me the day after to-morrow?”

“I’m afraid not.  I have had all my leave.”

“Shall I write to old Buffle, and ask it as a favour?”

“No,” said Johnny; “I shouldn’t like that.  But I’ll see to-morrow, and then I’ll let you know.  I can go down by the mail train on Saturday, at any rate.”

“That won’t be comfortable.  See and come with me if you can.  Now, good-night, my dear fellow, and remember this,—­when I say a thing I mean it.  I think I may boast that I never yet went back from my word.”

The earl as he spoke gave his left hand to his guest, and looking somewhat grandly up over the young man’s head, he tapped his own breast thrice with his right hand.  As he went through the little scene, John Eames felt that he was every inch an earl.

“I don’t know what to say to you, my lord.”

“Say nothing,—­not a word more to me.  But say to yourself that faint heart never won fair lady.  Good-night, my dear boy, good-night.  I dine out to-morrow, but you can call and let me know at about six.”

Eames then left the room without another word, and walked out into the cold air of Jermyn Street.  The moon was clear and bright, and the pavement in the shining light seemed to be as clean as a lady’s hand.  All the world was altered to him since he had entered Pawkins’s Hotel.  Was it then possible that Lily Dale might even yet become his wife?  Could it be true that he, even now, was in a position to go boldly to the Squire of Allington,