o see you ruined!"

"I must go to Mr Round then, myself."

Mr Vavasor went on walking about the room, jingling the money in
his trousers-pockets, and pushing the chairs about as he chanced to
meet them. At last, he made a compromise with her. He would take a
day to think whether he would assist her in getting the money, and
communicate his decision to her on the following morning.

CHAPTER LXI

The Bills Are Made All Right

Mr Vavasor was at his wits' end about his daughter. She had put her
name to four bills for five hundred pounds each, and had demanded
from him, almost without an apology, his aid in obtaining money to
meet them. And she might put her name to any other number of bills,
and for any amount! There was no knowing how a man ought to behave
to such a daughter. "I don't want her money," the father said to
himself; "and if she had got none of her own, I would make her as
comfortable as I could with my own income. But to see her throw her
money away in such a fashion as this is enough to break a man's
heart."

Mr Vavasor went to his office in Chancery Lane, but he did not go to
the chambers of Mr Round, the lawyer. Instead of calling on Mr Round
he sent a note by a messenger to Suffolk Street, and the answer to
the note came in the person of Mr Grey. John Grey was living in town
in these days, and was in the habit of seeing Mr Vavasor frequently.
Indeed, he had not left London since the memorable occasion on which
he had pitched his rival down the tailor's stairs at his lodgings. He
had made himself pretty well conversant with George Vavasor's career,
and had often shuddered as he thought what might be the fate of any
girl who might trust herself to marry such a man as that.

He had been at home when Mr Vavasor's note had reached his lodgings,
and had instantly walked off towards Chancery Lane. He knew his way
to Mr Vavasor's signing-office very accurately, for he had acquired
a habit of calling there, and of talking to the father about his
daughter. He was a patient, persevering man, confident in himself,
and apt to trust that he would accomplish those things which he
attempted, though he was hardly himself aware of any such aptitude.
He had never despaired as to Alice. And though he had openly
acknowledged to himself that she had been very foolish,--or rather,
that her judgement had failed her,--he had never in truth been
angry with her. He had looked upon her rejection of himself, and
her