“I see by the way you ask me that you think I'm a conceited cub,” said Cyril. “But I'm not conceited, and—look here, Sir Percival, give me this chance and it will mean the saving of me. You'll not regret it. I was just thinking as I came along here this evening, that there's nothing left for me except to enlist, and by the Lord Harry, if you won't take me I will enlist if only to get away from this place.”
“My dear boy, you needn't hold that pistol to my head,” said Sir Percival.
“A pistol—what pistol?” said Cyril, in a low tone, taking a step or two back and staring at Sir Percival.
“Why, that threat of enlisting. Why need you threaten me with that? I'll give you the chance you ask for without any intimidation. Heavens! If you only knew the relief that it is to me to be able to tell O'Gorman that I have got a man for him. Oh, you and he will get on all right. Of course you'll do just what he tells you, or you'll get your passage paid home by the next steamer.”
“Sir Percival,” faltered Cyril, “you've saved me.”
And then, man of the world though he was, he burst into tears, and hurried away, leaving Sir Per-cival standing alone on the roadside extremely gratified by the reflection that once more he had been right in the estimate he had formed of a man's character, though all the people whom he had met had differed from him. It was this capacity to judge of men's characters without being guided by the opinions formed—and expressed—by others, that had made him a rich man while others had remained poor. He had come to the conclusion that Cyril was not in reality a mauvais sujet, or what is known in England as a bad egg. The philosophy of Sir Percival's life was comprised within these lines:
“Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.”
He rather guessed that he could outwit Satan if he only set about trying to do it.
Thus it was that Agnes had to express her gratitude once again to Sir Percival Hope, and thus their friendship became consolidated.