"Aye?" returns Richard, brightening. "But how do you make it out?"
"Mr. Carstone, you are represented by—"
"You said just now—a rock."
"Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust on dust, "a rock. That's something. You are separately represented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. THAT'S something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk it about. THAT'S something. It's not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as in name. THAT'S something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir. And THAT'S something, surely."
Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his clenched hand.
"Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John Jarndyce's
