“I consider he hasn’t that miserable, pettifogging spirit at his back, if that’s what you mean. You must have seen it for yourself. You haven’t many clients, I should say, that would knock off half a fortune to put things right, have you?”
“No,” said Mr Pitt, thrusting his stick into a lump of red mud. “Certainly not many.”
“There, that’s what I said. Generally there is some spur in the background before they do that sort of thing.”
“Squire, you deserve to have been a lawyer.”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr Chester, rubbing his hands in high glee, “that’s the way with you fellows; you think no one can see an inch before his nose, except he’s one of yourselves. The worst of your trade is the confounded low opinion you get of human nature. I dare say the best you would say for young Miles was that he was a fool for his pains.”
“Certainly not,” said Mr Pitt dryly. “A fool is the last thing I should have called him.”
“Eh, what?” said Mr Chester, stopping suddenly, and looking at his companion with an expression of bewilderment. “What do you mean? Can’t you speak out? What on earth would you call him?”
“A very prudent—scoundrel would be nearer the mark.”
The effect upon the Squire was electrical. His face became crimson with anger.
“Do you know what you are talking about, sir? Anthony Miles a scoundrel! Why, you’ll be saying I’m a scoundrel next! Anthony Miles!—a young fellow I’ve known since he was that high! It’s an insult, an insult to us all.—Are you mad, Pitt?” said the Squire, pulling himself up with a sudden attempt at self-control which nearly choked him.