“You do, Bayle, you do,” said Sir Gordon, taking his arm and leaning upon him in a confidential way. “You’re a good fellow, Bayle; and Castor here would miss you horribly, if you left.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“It is not nonsense, sir. Why, you do more good among the people in one year than I have done in all my life.”
“Well, I think I have amerced you pretty well lately for my poor, Sir Gordon.”
“Yes, man, but it was your doing. I shouldn’t have given a shilling. But look here, I was going to say, why is it that I come to you, and make such a confidant of you?”
“Do you wish to confide something to me now?”
“Yes, of course; one can’t go to one’s solicitor, and I’ve no friends. Plenty of club acquaintances: but no friends. There, don’t shake your head like that, man. Well, only a few. By-the-way, charming little girl that.”
“What, little Julie?” cried Bayle, with his cheeks flushing with pleasure.
“Yes; and your prime favourite, I see. I don’t like her, though. Too much of her father.”
“She has his eyes and hair,” said Bayle thoughtfully; “but there is the sweet grave look in her face that her mother used to wear when I first came to Castor.”