“If one has not many clients, however,” he went on, as if answering his own protest against that small boast about combining two professions, “the law is a distinguished profession after all: makes one a gentleman by Act of Parliament, you know, Paul.”
And then the barrister smiled again; he was evidently entertaining himself as well as Paul.
“There is an offshoot of the legal profession, a sort of Jackall-byeway, along which a large quantity of grist comes to the legal mill—I mean the police. The higher branches of that craft present many features of interest—the detective feature in particular,” the barrister went on. “I have been studying it a little lately, in the interest of your friend Gibbs; the police seem to have given the fellow up altogether.”
As they were talking, two literary friends dropped in, and the conversation was changed to a gossip about books, and plays, and pictures—“Seeking New Homes” was a leading topic. One of the strangers said the town was mad about it, and after all it was just simply a sensational thing—a dramatic bit that would engrave well and be popular in country districts. His companion did not agree with this criticism, but spoke of the picture as a work of really high art—a poem on canvas, wonderfully well painted.
And so the time wore on, and by degrees the barrister’s room was filled with smoke, and Paul at length bade his friend and patron good-night, shook hands with the visitors, and departed.
“You are a queer fellow, Williamson,” said one of the new comers as Paul left the room and commenced blundering his way down-stairs.
“Oh, this is Williamson’s protégé, is it?” said the other.
“Yes, that is the young fellow,” said the barrister; “he is quite a study of English innocence and honesty, and I am going to be useful to him. His sister is a splendid creature; but, somehow or other, he tells me now that it is discovered she is not his sister, but the daughter of a very wealthy gentleman. There is something exceedingly interesting in the whole family: his only brother went to sea at fifteen, and has never since been heard of.”
“Williamson’s going to write a sensation romance,” said one friend to the other, in a loud ironical aside; “and here are his materials.”
“I am certainly studying the young fellow,” said Williamson, quietly. “A bit of genuine honesty of thought and feeling and expression, though it be not coupled with the highest order of education, is very refreshing to contemplate in these times, and especially when one is connected with professional critics.”