Norah's delicate eyebrows rose, and her lips tightened.
'What's that about Edinburgh, Archie?'
'Well, some day we must settle down to work.'
'But, my poor friend, why Edinburgh? what's wrong with East Ham?'
'You know. Family connection, and all that. Solicitors. I wouldn't have a chance at the London Bar; now, at Edinburgh, in five years——'
'Yes, darling, go on——'
'In five or six years I ought to be clearing at least five hundred a year.'
'Say it again slowly, Archie.... You don't seriously mean to shut me up for five or six years in Edinburgh to earn five hundred a year! Why, I'd sooner be bricked into a convent wall!'
'Edinburgh's not a bad place; we'd know lots of people there.'
'The same applies to hell, dear.' And so the argument went on, Archie more and more obstinate, and Norah more outrageous. Archie was determined that his only safe prospect was the Bar and the Scottish Bar at that. The Bar might be slow, but, for him, it was sure, and success was only a question of time. Norah urged him to chance his arm at something quicker, more lucrative, and in London. She quoted the successful among her friends whom post-war poverty had driven to work.