“I mean that I imagine, on very strong grounds, that your family desire to see no more of you,” said the lawyer. “O, they may be very wrong; but that is the impression conveyed, that is what I suppose I am paid to bring about, and I have no choice but to try and earn my hire.”
“I would scorn to deceive you,” said Norris, with a strong flush; “you have guessed rightly. My family refuse to see me; but I am not going to England, I am going to the islands. How does that affect the islands?”
“Ah, but I don’t know that you are going to the islands,” said the lawyer, looking down, and spearing the blotting-paper with a pencil.
“I beg your pardon. I have the pleasure of informing you,” said Norris.
“I am afraid, Mr. Carthew, that I cannot regard that communication as official,” was the slow reply.
“I am not accustomed to have my word doubted!” cried Norris.
“Hush! I allow no one to raise his voice in my office,” said the lawyer. “And for that matter—you seem to be a young gentleman of sense—consider what I know of you. You are a discarded son; your family pays money to be shut of you. What have you done? I don’t know. But do you not see how foolish I should be, if I exposed my business reputation on the safeguard of the honour of a gentleman of whom I know just so much and no more? This interview is very disagreeable. Why prolong it? Write home, get my instructions changed, and I will change my behaviour. Not otherwise.”
“I am very fond of three hundred a year,” said Norris, “but I cannot pay the price required. I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
“You must please yourself,” said the lawyer. “Fail to be here next quarter-day, and the thing stops. But I warn you, and I mean the warning in a friendly spirit. Three months later you will be here begging, and I shall have no choice but to show you in the street.”
“I wish you a good-evening,” said Norris.