A flush rose in Faversham's pale cheek.
"Mr. Melrose talked of hiring one yesterday," he said, unwillingly. "How far are you?"
They fell into talk about Duddon and the neighbourhood, avoiding any further discussion of Melrose. Then Faversham described his accident, and spoke warmly of Undershaw, an occupation in which Tatham heartily joined.
"I owe my life to him," said Faversham; adding with sudden sharpness, "I suppose I must count it an advantage!"
"That would be the common way of looking at it!" laughed Tatham. "What are you doing just now?"
"Nothing in particular. I am one of the large tribe of briefless barristers. I suppose I've never given enough of my mind to it. The fact is I don't like the law—never have. I've tried other things—fatal, of course!—but they haven't come off, or at least only very moderately. But, as you may suppose—I'm not exactly penniless. I have a few resources—just enough to live on—without a wife."
Tatham felt a little awkward. Faversham's tone was already that of a man to some extent disappointed and embittered.
"You had always so much more brains than the rest of us," he said cordially. "You'll be all right."
"It's not brains that matter nowadays—it's money. What do you get by brains? A civil service appointment—and a pension of seven hundred a year. What's the good of slaving for that?"
Faversham turned to his companion with a smile, in which however there was no good-humour. It made Tatham disagreeably conscious of his own wealth.