rther immediate objection, and consented at
last to having an interview with one of the firm on the subject,
provided, of course, that that member of the firm came to him at his
chambers. And then he took his leave. Nothing positive had been done,
or even settled to be done, on this morning; but the persons most
interested in the matter had been made to understand that the affair
was taking an absolute palpable substance, and that steps must be
taken--indeed would be taken almost immediately. Mr. Furnival, as he
left the house, resolved to employ the attorneys whom he might think
best adapted for the purpose. He would settle that matter with Slow
and Bideawhile afterwards.

And then, as he returned to Noningsby, he wondered at his persistence
in the matter. He believed that his client had been guilty; he
believed that this codicil was no real instrument made by Sir Joseph
Mason. And so believing, would it not be better for him to wash his
hands of the whole affair? Others did not think so, and would it not
be better that such others should be her advisers? Was he not taking
up for himself endless trouble and annoyance that could have no
useful purpose? So he argued with himself, and yet by the time that
he had reached Noningsby he had determined that he would stand by
Lady Mason to the last. He hated that man Mason, as he declared to
himself when providing himself with reasons for his resolve, and
regarded his bitter, malicious justice as more criminal than any
crime of which Lady Mason might have been guilty. And then as he
leaned back in the railway carriage he still saw her pale face before
him, still heard the soft tone of her voice, and was still melted by
the tear in her eye. Young man, young friend of mine, who art now
filled to the overflowing of thy brain with poetry, with chivalry,
and love, thou seest seated opposite to thee there that grim old man,
with long snuffy nose, with sharp piercing eyes, with scanty frizzled
hairs. He is rich and cross, has been three times married, and has
often quarrelled with his children. He is fond of his wine, and
snores dreadfully after dinner. To thy seeming he is a dry, withered
stick, from which all the sap of sentiment has been squeezed by the
rubbing and friction of years. Poetry, the feeling if not the words
of poetry,--is he not dead to it, even as the pavement is dead over
which his wheels trundle? Oh, my young friend! thou art ignorant in
this--as in most other thin