“Are you sure of yourself, Canterby?” he said. “Is it quite just to entail upon him so ruthlessly sweeping a penalty as this? Are you sure of yourself?”
“Of course I am.”
“No, you’re not. My dear old friend, you can’t throw dust in my eyes. You are not sure of yourself. Then why not give him another chance?”
“Why, that’s just what I have done. Anybody else would have cut him off with a shilling—with the traditional shilling. By George, sir, they would.”
Canon Lenthall smiled to himself, for he knew that when a man of his friend’s temperament begins to wax warm in an argument of this sort, it is a sure sign that he is arguing against himself. He considered the victory almost won. Turning over the sheets of the draft once more, he read out a clause—slowly and deliberately:
“To my nephew, Hilary Blachland, I bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds—in case he might find himself in such a position that its possession would afford him a last chance.”
“Well?” queried Sir Luke.
“Please note two things, Canterby,” said the Canon. “First you say I am to advise you, then that I am to read this document and make any remarks I like.”
“Of course.”
“Well then, I’ll take you at your word. I advise you to draw your pen right through that clause.”