The atmosphere was stormy at No. 3, Indenture Buildings, Temple. It was four o’clock, and Mr. Blodwell had come out of court in the worst of bad tempers. He was savage with George Neston, who, being in a case with him, had gone away and left him with nobody to tell him his facts. He was savage with Tommy Myles, who had refused to read some papers for him; savage with Mr. Justice Pounce, who had cut up his speech to the jury,—Pounce, who had been his junior a hundred times!—savage with Mr. Timms, his clerk, because he was always savage with Timms when he was savage with other people. Tommy had fled before the storm; and now, to Mr. Blodwell’s unbounded indignation, George also was brushing his hat with the manifest intention of departure.
“In my time, rising juniors,” said Mr. Blodwell, with sarcasm, “didn’t leave chambers at four.”
“Business,” said George, putting on his gloves.
“Women,” answered his leader, briefly and scornfully.
“It’s the same thing, in this case. I am going to see Mrs. Witt.”
Mr. Blodwell’s person expressed moral reprobation. George, however, remained unmoved, and the elder man stole a sharp glance at him.
“I don’t know what’s up, George,” he said, “but take care of yourself.”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Then why did you jump?”
“Timms, a hansom,” cried George. “I’ll be in court all day to-morrow, and keep you straight, sir.”