"I disagree: I disagree entirely."
"I thought you would. You are not strong enough to be original. However, all this chatter will not alter circumstances. My sister has sold me in favour of this—what do you say his name is?"
"Mr. Montrose. Douglas Montrose!" said Cane sulkily. "He is——"
"Won't you sit down and explain? You will be more comfortable."
"No I won't," said Cane sharply and still fretted by the proposition which had been made to him. "I doubt if it would not be better for me to retire after what you have said."
"Oh," said Enistor ironically, "your duty to your late lamented client forbids."
"It does, and therefore I remain to explain. But I shall not sit down again in your presence, nor drink your wine, nor eat your food."
"Better wait until you are asked, Mr. Cane. Go on and tell me about Montrose."
Confounded by his host's disconcerting calm, the little lawyer came to the point, but delivered his explanation standing. "Mr. Montrose is a young Scotchman, poor and handsome and clever. He is a poet and a journalist, who lives in a Bloomsbury garret, ambitious of literary fame. Eighteen months ago he saved Lady Staunton's life when her horses bolted in Hyde Park. He stopped them at the risk of his limbs, and prevented a serious accident!"
"Silly ass," muttered Enistor, "if Lucy had died then, the money would have come to me. Go on."