“Dear me, what a reposeful prospect,” said Geoffrey, aghast. He had certainly never met such a woman as this before.
“Repose is only good when it is earned,” went on the fair philosopher, “and in order to fit one to earn some more, otherwise it becomes idleness, and that is misery. Fancy being idle when one has such a little time to live. The only thing to do is to work and stifle thought. I suppose that you have a large practice, Mr. Bingham?”
“You should not ask a barrister that question,” he answered, laughing; “it is like looking at the pictures which an artist has turned to the wall. No, to be frank, I have not. I have only taken to practising in earnest during the last two years. Before I was a barrister in name, and that is all.”
“Then why did you suddenly begin to work?”
“Because I lost my prospects, Miss Granger—from necessity, in short.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said, with a blush, which of course he could not see. “I did not mean to be rude. But it is very lucky for you, is it not?”
“Indeed! Some people don’t think so. Why is it lucky?”
“Because you will now rise and become a great man, and that is more than being a rich man.”
“And why do you think that I shall become a great man?” he asked, stopping paddling in his astonishment and looking at the dim form before him.
“Oh! because it is written on your face,” she answered simply.