“And you a lawyer! and Eleanor said you were so awfully clever. I quite quaked when the Countess sent me down with you. Are you very clever, Mr. Beaumont?” “You must find out, Miss des Forges.” “Do you know, I’ve never talked to a Solicitor before. I’ve wanted to meet a real live Solicitor this ever so long.” “Question of marriage settlement, I suppose?” “Nonsense. Anybody that takes me will have to take me just as I am without one stiver. Not much of a bargain, am I?” “I should say cheap at any price.” “That’s what Charlie says.” “And who’s Charlie?” “Ah! that’s why I wanted to meet a solicitor. Charlie’s my cousin and awfully nice. Just ask Eleanor.” “I’ll be content with your opinion.” “But perhaps you know him. He’s in the Temple, Paper Buildings. Isn’t it ridiculous? Paper Buildings! I’ve heard of men of straw.” “There are a good many Charlies in Paper Buildings, Miss des Forges. I suppose your cousin is a barrister?” “That’s just what he is—a what d’ye call it barrister, short, no, not short.” “Briefless, perhaps?” “How clever of you to guess it. Eleanor must be right. And he’s delightfully poor, and gives luncheon to us girls in his chambers when we go up to town, and takes us down the river. He’s awfully good; but he’s only had one brief, and then the wretched people went and settled out of Court, as Charlie calls it. I think it was a conspiracy. I’d settle ’em,” and Miss des Forgess glared vindictively across the table, to the great discomfiture of the curate of an adjoining village, who blushed distressedly. “Quite possibly,” agreed Edward. “So your cousin’s one chance of distinction was taken from him. Never mind, he may have another brief some day.” Miss des Forges shook her head dolefully. “Charlie says not. He writes for the papers and magazines now and lives on air. Tell me, how do barristers get on—at first, you know. What gives them the start?” “There are three ways never known to fail.” “Oh! do tell one. How I wish Charlie were here!” “Well, first, he can write a book, not a book likely to run through the fictional monthlies, you know, but a sound, solid, substantial book, say, on Estovers.” “What’s Estovers? It sounds like something to eat. Charlie could manage that.” “You’d better ask your cousin to tell you all about Estovers. It will help him to write the book.” “And how long will that take?” “Oh! not long. Say, ten or fifteen years for it to be written and get known.” The sunshine faded from the bright face of Miss des Forges. “As well say a lifetime,” she pouted. “And what’s another way—a short way, you understand, Mr. Beaumont?” “Well, there’s huggery.” “Heavens, what a name! Now, pray, Mr. Beaumont, what is huggery, It sounds like a crime of the Middle Ages.” “Well, it has a smack of the Middle Ages. You’ve heard of ‘the rich attorney’s elderly ugly daughter’?” Miss des Forges nodded. “Well, that’s huggery.” “Then that won’t do at all, sir, and you ought to know it.”