"I don't see that there's any money-getting without chance," said

Lydgate; "if a man gets it in a profession, it's pretty sure to come by

chance."

Mr. Farebrother thought he could account for this speech, in striking

contrast with Lydgate's former way of talking, as the perversity which

will often spring from the moodiness of a man ill at ease in his

affairs. He answered in a tone of good-humored admission--

"Ah, there's enormous patience wanted with the way of the world. But

it is the easier for a man to wait patiently when he has friends who

love him, and ask for nothing better than to help him through, so far

as it lies in their power."

"Oh yes," said Lydgate, in a careless tone, changing his attitude and

looking at his watch. "People make much more of their difficulties

than they need to do."

He knew as distinctly as possible that this was an offer of help to

himself from Mr. Farebrother, and he could not bear it. So strangely

determined are we mortals, that, after having been long gratified with

the sense that he had privately done the Vicar a service, the

suggestion that the Vicar discerned his need of a service in return

made him shrink into unconquerable reticence. Besides, behind all

making of such offers what else must come?--that he should "mention his

case," imply that he wanted specific things. At that moment, suicide

seemed easier.

Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man not to know the meaning of that

reply, and there was a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and

tone, corresponding with his physique, which if he repelled your

advances in the first instance seemed to put persuasive devices out of

question.

"What time are you?" said the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling.

"After eleven," said Lydgate. And they went into the drawing-room.




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