“Rather,—the warmer the better—get me used to a sultry climate. It’s as well to be prepared for the future, eh?”—Mr. Wimpenny’s expansive smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his client’s countenance was not responsive.
“H’m,” said Mr. Tinker. “Well, Wimpenny, let’s get to business. I want to make my will, and it’s no use putting the thing off. I can always alter it?”
“Yes, yes, certainly—as long as a man lives he can alter his will, always supposing he remain compos mentis; and we’re all human, Mr. Tinker, we’re all human.”
“It shouldn’t be a very complicated affair either,” went on Mr. Tinker. “Unfortunately, except the house I live in.”
“Snug little hole, but too near the mill,” thought his adviser.
“Except that, practically all I have is tied up in my business.”
“And a very good business too, Mr. Tinker, by all accounts.”
“I’ve nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as things have turned out that I did not arrange differently. You see, I’ve no son to carry on the concern after my death.”
The lawyer nodded assent.
“I must provide for my widow, of course. She must have the house and furniture for her life, and I thought of, say, three hundred a year—not a penny more, she’d only give it to the chapel.”