"Why, assuredly not. 'Tis as unlike him as it could be."
"Then it is well!" said Lady Catharine.
"Well? Very badly done, I should say."
"Oh, my poor Sir Arthur, where are your wits? 'Tis very well because 'tis very ill, this same description."
"Ah, ha!" said he, a sudden light dawning upon him. "Then you mean to tell me that this description was misconceived deliberately?"
"What would you think?"
"Did you do this work yourself?"
"Guess for yourself. Montague, as you know, was once of a pretty imagination, ere he took to finance. If he and the poet Prior could write such conceits as they have created, could not perhaps Montague—or Prior—or some one else—have conceived this description of Mr. Law?"
The young man threw himself into a seat, his head between his hands. "'Tis like a play," said he. "And surely the play of fortune ever runs well enough for Mr. Law."
"Sir Arthur," said Lady Catharine, rising uneasily and standing before him, "I must confess to you that I bear a certain active part in private plans looking to the escape of Mr. Law. I have come to you for aid. Sir Arthur, I pray God that we may be successful."