how he did her little kindnesses, and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied her from his heart. But he never thought—never, my poor, dear, sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with such better things before him—what a fatal link was riveting between his fresh youth and her faded age, between his free hopes and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering mind.
Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or did, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east wind and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strict silence on the subject. So I thought one day when I went to London to meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard to be in waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a little talk together. I found him there when I arrived, and we walked away arm in arm.
“Well, Richard,” said I as soon as I could begin to be grave with him, “are you beginning to feel more settled now?”
“Oh, yes, my dear!” returned Richard. “I’m all right enough.”
“But settled?” said I.
“How do you mean, settled?” returned Richard with his gay laugh.
“Settled in the law,” said I.
“Oh, aye,” replied Richard, “I’m all right enough.”
“You said that before, my dear Richard.”
“And you don’t think it’s an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it’s not. Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?”
“Yes.”