Woodcourt was in his presence for some moments without being perceived, and he told me that he never could forget the haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before he was aroused from his dream.
“Woodcourt, my dear fellow,” cried Richard, starting up with extended hands, “you come upon my vision like a ghost.”
“A friendly one,” he replied, “and only waiting, as they say ghosts do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?” They were seated now, near together.
“Badly enough, and slowly enough,” said Richard, “speaking at least for my part of it.”
“What part is that?”
“The Chancery part.”
“I never heard,” returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, “of its going well yet.”
“Nor I,” said Richard moodily. “Who ever did?” He brightened again in a moment and said with his natural openness, “Woodcourt, I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it in your estimation. You must know that I have done no good this long time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have done better by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked me, but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard, a very different opinion. To make short of a long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object now—or it has me—and it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and make the best of me.”
“A bargain,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “Do as much by me in return.”