“His son is beholden to you. You repeat yourself on behalf of a scapegrace, I fear. You were not his adviser?”
“In one matter only that you shall learn. Now, my friend?”
The last words were addressed to an odd-looking individual who had come up to them as they talked, and who now presented certain savoury goods to their inspection with a dumb gesture of invitation.
The creature was a lank, middle-sized man, with a meagre face of decorum and rather delicate features set in an expression of confident apathy. He was scrupulously attired in dress-coat, vest and knee-breeches of stainless black broadcloth; and black silk stockings, ending in shoes decorated with large steel buckles, encased his neat deliberate legs. A great shirt-frill stood out from his breast, like a table napkin from a tumbler, and his neck cherished the spotless embrace of a lawny cravat. On his head he wore no covering save its natural one; but this was so clipt and bepowdered as almost to give the appearance of a close cap of linen. A short apron of the softest texture, which concealed a third of his glories, seemed designed rather to advertise his calling than to protect his broadcloth.
Thus apparelled, he presented to the talkers a little round tray, on which was set for consideration a pudding, neatly sliced and sugared, that gave out a pleasant fragrance. To the obvious merits of this he silently drew attention with a short, bright spatula which he carried in his other hand.
“No, no,” said the lawyer. “Not to-day, my friend; not to-day.”
He smiled good-humouredly; and the oddling dropped a courtly bow—“the loss is mutual,” it expressed—and carried his comestible elsewhere.
“Sir Robert,” said the attorney, with a droll, kindly look, “the lottery office missed fire; but I have another moral for you.”
“It shall have my respectful attention, sir, in honour of my father’s friend.”
The words were spoken with gravity. The other gave a twitch of surprise. Then said he in a pretty gentle voice: