gloves, while her bonnet spoke of regardlessness of expense and recent prodigality. She fell back into the client’s chair.
‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘when first we met we did not part, or I did not—you were quite the gentleman—on the best of terms. But now, how can I speak of your wise advice, and how much don’t I owe you?’
Merton answered very gravely: ‘You do not owe me anything, Madam. Please understand that I took absolutely no professional steps in your affair.’
‘What?’ cried Mrs. Nicholson. ‘You did not send down that blessed young man to the Perch?’
‘I merely suggested that the inn might suit a person whom I knew, who was looking for country quarters. Your name never crossed my lips, nor a word about the business on which you did me the honour to consult me.’
‘Then I owe you nothing?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Well, I do call this providential,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, with devout enthusiasm.
‘You are not in my debt to the extent of a farthing, but if you think I have accidentally been—’
‘An instrument?’ said Mrs. Nicholson.