“Many people do, but it is never advisable,” said the lawyer.  “You will say it is natural for me to tell you that.  When they do, it should be as simple as possible.  I give all my real property, or my personal property, or my share in so-and-so, or my jewels, or so forth, to—­whoever it may be.  The fewer words the better,—­so that nobody may be able to read between the lines, you know,—­and the signature attested by two witnesses; but they must not be witnesses that have any interest; that is, that have anything left to them by the document they witness.”

Lady Mary put up her hand defensively, with a laugh.  It was still a most delicate hand, like ivory, a little yellowed with age, but fine, the veins standing out a little upon it, the finger-tips still pink.  “You speak,” she said, “as if you expected me to take the law in my own hands.  No, no, my old friend; never fear, you shall have the doing of it.”

“Whenever you please, my dear lady—­whenever you please.  Such a thing cannot be done an hour too soon.  Shall I take your instructions now?”

Lady Mary laughed, and said, “You were always a very keen man for business.  I remember your father used to say, Robert would never neglect an opening.”

“No,” he said, with a peculiar look.  “I have always looked after my six-and-eightpences; and in that case it is true, the pounds take care of themselves.”

“Very good care,” said Lady Mary; and then she bade her young companion bring that book she had been reading, where there was something she wanted to show Mr. Furnival.  “It is only a case in a novel, but I am sure it is bad law; give me your opinion,” she said.

He was obliged to be civil, very civil.  Nobody is rude to the Lady Marys of life; and besides, she was old enough to have an additional right to every courtesy.  But while he sat over the novel, and tried with unnecessary vehemence to make her see what very bad law it was, and glanced from her smiling attention to the innocent sweetness of the girl beside her, who was her loving attendant, the good man’s heart was sore.  He said many hard things of her in his own mind as he went away.

“She will die,” he said bitterly.  “She will go off in a moment when nobody is looking for it, and that poor child will be left destitute.”

It was all he could do not to go back and take her by her fragile old shoulders and force her to sign and seal at once.  But then he knew very well that as soon as he found himself in her presence, he would of necessity be obliged to subdue his impatience, and be once more civil, very civil, and try to suggest and insinuate the duty which he dared not force upon her.  And it was very clear that till she pleased she would take no hint.  He supposed it must be that strange reluctance to part with their power which is said to be common to old people, or else that horror of death, and determination to keep it at arm’s length, which is also common.  Thus he did as spectators are so apt to do, he forced a meaning and motive into what had no motive at all, and imagined Lady Mary, the kindest of women, to be of purpose and intention risking the future of the girl whom she had brought up, and whom she loved,—­not with passion, indeed, or anxiety, but with tender benevolence; a theory which was as false as anything could be.