“Young, he is that, certainly! I half forgot it, young and therefore,—” again he stopped, but his eyes were kindled.
“No, not ‘therefore,’” Lucy answered keenly, “if you mean by that that he is still young enough to improve.”
“Not with help?”
“Whose?”
The Bishop hesitated, eyes intent, searching hers, then answered, “Westbury’s, for Westbury has hurt him.”
“Will he profit by Westbury’s help if he has not profited by yours?”
The Bishop mused, frankly anxious, puzzled, “I had been thinking that if Westbury had hurt him, just for that reason perhaps, Westbury—could also help him, and would.”
“Oh, Henry, Henry,” she shook her head with pursed, humorous lips, “you talk in abstract terms. But Westbury is no abstraction. ‘Westbury could help him.’ Exactly what do you mean? For who, pray, is Westbury?”
The Bishop’s gaze met hers; there was humor in his eyes as in hers, but also something deeper, something watchful, strange.
“Oh,” she laughed, “I remember. I am Westbury! Do you mean, Henry Collinton, that I am to help this Newbold of yours? That I am to make a gentleman of him, if you couldn’t?”