"What a world it is, my dear Lord Verney! for so I persist in styling you still, for this will prove virtually no interruption."
At the close of his sentence the attorney lowered his voice earnestly.
"I don't follow you, sir, about it," replied Lord Verney, disconsolately; "for a man who has had an illness, he looks wonderfully well, and in good spirits and things, and as likely to live as I am, about it."
"My remarks, my lord, were directed rather to what I may term the animus—the design—of this, shall I call it, demonstration, my lord, on the part of your lordship's brother."
"Yes, of course, the animus, about it. But it strikes me he's as likely to outlive me as not."
"My lord, may I venture, in confidence and with great respect, to submit, that your lordship was hardly judicious in affording him a personal interview?"
"Why, I should hope my personal direction of that conversation, and—and things, has been such as I should wish," said the peer, very loftily.
"My lord, I have failed to make myself clear. I never questioned the consummate ability with which, no doubt, your lordship's part in that conversation was sustained. What I meant to convey is, that considering the immense distance socially between you, the habitual and undeviating eminence of your lordship's position, and the melancholy circle in which it has been your brother's lot to move, your meeting him face to face for the purpose of a personal discussion of your relations, may lead him to the absurd conclusion that your lordship is, in fact, afraid of him."
"That, sir, would be a very impertinent conclusion."
"Quite so, my lord, and render him proportionably impracticable. Now, I'll undertake to bring him to reason." The attorney was speaking very low and sternly, with contracted eyes and a darkened face. "He has been married to the lady who lives in the house adjoining, under the name of Mrs. Mervyn, and to my certain knowledge inquiries have been set in motion to ascertain whether there has not been issue of that marriage."