‘A little Devil,’ said the client. ‘Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, ‘will you oblige me with a pinch of snuff? Thank you, sir.’ As the imperturbable lawyer applied it to his nose with great apparent relish and a perfect absorption of his attention in the proceeding, the client gradually broke into a smile, and, looking up, said: ‘You talk of nursing. How long nursing?’ ‘How long nursing?’ repeated Snitchey, dusting the snuff from his fingers, and making a slow calculation in his mind. ‘For your involved estate, sir? In good hands? S. and C.’s, say? Six or seven years.’ ‘To starve for six or seven years!’ said the client with a fretful laugh, and an impatient change of his position. ‘To starve for six or seven years, Mr. Warden,’ said Snitchey, ‘would be very uncommon indeed. You might get another estate by showing yourself, the while. But, we don’t think you could do it—speaking for Self and Craggs—and consequently don’t advise it.’ ‘What _do_ you advise?’ ‘Nursing, I say,’ repeated Snitchey. ‘Some few years of nursing by Self and Craggs would bring it round. But to enable us to make terms, and hold terms, and you to keep terms, you must go away; you must live abroad. As to starvation, we could ensure you some hundreds a-year to starve upon, even in the beginning—I dare say, Mr. Warden.’ ‘Hundreds,’ said the client. ‘And I have spent thousands!’ ‘That,’ retorted Mr. Snitchey, putting the papers slowly back into the cast-iron box, ‘there is no doubt about. No doubt a—bout,’ he repeated to himself, as he thoughtfully pursued his occupation. The lawyer very likely knew _his_ man; at any rate his dry, shrewd, whimsical manner, had a favourable influence on the client’s moody state, and disposed him to be more free and unreserved. Or, perhaps the client knew _his_ man, and had elicited such encouragement as he had received, to render some purpose he was about to disclose the more defensible in appearance. Gradually raising his head, he sat looking at his immovable adviser with a smile, which presently broke into a laugh. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘my iron-headed friend—’ Mr. Snitchey pointed out his partner. ‘Self and—excuse me—Craggs.’ ‘I beg Mr. Craggs’s pardon,’ said the client. ‘After all, my iron-headed friends,’ he leaned forward in his chair, and dropped his voice a little, ‘you don’t know half my ruin yet.’ Mr. Snitchey stopped and stared at him. Mr. Craggs also stared. ‘I am not only deep in debt,’ said the client, ‘but I am deep in—’ ‘Not in love!’ cried Snitchey. ‘Yes!’ said the client, falling back in his chair, and surveying the Firm with his hands in his pockets. ‘Deep in love.’ ‘And not with an heiress, sir?’ said Snitchey. ‘Not with an heiress.’ ‘Nor a rich lady?’ ‘Nor a rich lady that I know of—except in beauty and merit.’ ‘A single lady, I trust?’ said Mr. Snitchey, with great expression. ‘Certainly.’