When Jim reached his office the next morning McNiven recommended the view to him, gave him a chair, refused a cigar, lighted his pipe instead, opened a drawer in his desk, put his feet in it, and leaned far back in his swivel chair.
Jim began, “Well, you see, Sandy, it's like this—”
“One moment,” McNiven broke in. “Before you speak I must as an honest lawyer warn you against the step you contemplate.”
“But, damn it, you don't know what it is yet.”
“I don't have to. I know you, and I know that people don't come to lawyers, as a rule, except to get out of a scrape dishonestly or to get into one unwisely.”
It was his office joke, and something more, a kind of formula for squaring himself with his conscience, a phrase for warding off the devil—as a beggar spits on the penny he accepts.
Having exorcised the demon, he said, “Go on, tell me: what's her name and how much does she want for silence?”
“How much do you want for silence?” Jim growled.
“Shoot!”
McNiven was startled and grieved when he learned that Jim was not making ready to marry Charity Coe, but some one else. Jim told him as much as he thought necessary, and McNiven guessed the rest. He groaned: “It seems impossible to surround marriage with such difficulties that people won't break in and out. I've got a friend of yours trying to bust a home as quietly as you're trying to build one.”