“I am so opposed to all lawyers on principle.”
“So am I, as I am opposed to small-pox, or bicycle riders, or yellow fogs; but they are not to be avoided in this life, and it is neither polite or politic to keep these highly respectable solicitors waiting like sweeps. Critchett, beg Mr. Folliott to enter. I will leave you, Bertram.”
“No, no; for goodness’ sake stay. I may want some advice.”
“You not unfrequently do. But you never follow it when given. Pray be civil.”
A few moments later Mr. Folliott enters; a bland, white-haired, portly old gentleman, a little ruffled at having been left so long at the foot of the stairs.
“I beg your pardon, Mr.—Mr.—Folliott,” says Bertram, looking at the letter. “I had, in fact, not opened this note of yours. It is a bad habit I have of leaving letters unread.”
“It was Sheridan’s, sir,” says the lawyer, pointedly. “It did not bring him good fortune.”
He catches sight of Fanshawe, and his amiable countenance assumes the startled and displeased expression of a cat’s face, when the cat suddenly perceives a bull terrier.
“I naturally awaited you, Mr. Bertram, or a communication from you, all the day,” he says, in an affronted tone. “Hearing nothing I thought it best to come myself. You are perhaps unaware that the Prince of Viana is dead.”
“I never heard of the individual,” says Bertram. “Who was he?”