It is a melancholy¹ fact that Mr. Barry, when he heard the last story from Tretton, began to think that his partner was not so wide-awake as he had hitherto always regarded him. As time runs on, such a result generally takes place in all close connections between the old and the young. Ten years ago Mr. Barry had looked up to Mr. Grey with a trustful respect. Words which fell from Mr. Grey were certainly words of truth, but they were, in Mr. Barry's then estimation, words of wisdom also. Gradually an altered feeling had grown up; and Mr. Barry, though he did not doubt the truth, thought less about it. But he did doubt the wisdom constantly. The wisdom practised under Mr. Barry's vice-management was not quite the same as Mr. Grey's. And Mr. Barry had come to understand that though it might be well to tell the truth on occasions, it was folly² to suppose that any one else would do so. He had always thought that Mr. Grey had gone a little too fast in believing Squire³ Scarborough's first story. "But you've been to Nice, yourself, and discovered that it is true," Mr. Grey would say. Mr. Barry would shake his head, and declare that in having to deal with a man of such varied⁴ intellect as Mr. Scarborough there was no coming at the bottom of a story.

But there had been no question of any alterations⁵ in the mode of conducting the business of the firm. Mr. Grey had been, of course, the partner by whose judgment⁶ any question of importance must ultimately be decided⁷; and, though Mr. Barry had been sent to Nice, the Scarborough property was especially in Mr. Grey's branch. He had been loud in declaring the iniquity⁸ of his client, but had altogether made up his mind that the iniquity had been practised; and all the clerks in the office had gone with him, trusting to his great character for sober sagacity. And Mr. Grey was not a man who would easily be put out of his high position.

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