"Well, perhaps it was that," sighed the old man, confusedly.
"All this is very bad for you—we'll talk again," Nick rejoined.
"No, no—let us finish it now. I like to know what I'm doing. I shall rest better when I do know. There are great things to be done; the future will be full—the future will be fine," Mr. Carteret wandered.
"Let me say this for Julia: that if we hadn't been sundered her generosity to me would have been complete, she would have put her great fortune absolutely at my disposal," Nick said, after a moment. "Her consciousness of all that naturally carries her over any particular distress in regard to what won't come to me now from another source."
"Ah, don't lose it," pleaded the old man, painfully.
"It's in your hands, sir," reasoned Nick.
"I mean Mrs. Dallow's fortune. It will be of the highest utility. That was what your father missed."
"I shall miss more than my father did," said Nick.
"She'll come back to you—I can't look at you and doubt that."
Nick shook his head slowly, smiling. "Never, never, never! You look at me, my grand old friend, but you don't see me. I'm not what you think."
"What is it—what is it? Have you been bad?" Mr. Carteret panted.
"No, no; I'm not bad. But I'm different."
"Different?"
"Different from my father—different from Mrs. Dallow—different from you."
