He went down the stairs a step at a time—­thinking.  ’Now, I wonder where she got that!’ he muttered. ‘Noblesse oblige!  And well applied too!’ Again, ‘Lord, what beasts we men are!’ he thought.  ’Insult?  I suppose I did insult her; but I had to do that or kiss her.  And she earned it, the little firebrand!’ Then standing and looking along the High—­he had reached the College gates—­’D—­n Dunborough!  She is too good for him!  For a very little—­it would be mean, it would be low, it would be cursed low—­but for two pence I would speak to her mother and cheat him.  She is too good to be ruined by that coarse-tongued boaster!  Though I suppose she fancies him.  I suppose he is an Adonis to her!  Faugh!  Tommy, my lord, and Dunborough!  What a crew!’

The good and evil, spleen and patience, which he had displayed in his interview with the girl rode him still; for at the door of the Mitre he paused, went in, came out, and paused again.  He seemed to be unable to decide what he would do; but in the end he pursued his way along the street with a clouded brow, and in five minutes found himself at the door of the mean house in the court, whence the porter of Pembroke had gone out night and morning.  Here he knocked, and stood.  In a moment the door was opened, but to his astonishment by Mr. Fishwick.

Either the attorney shared his surprise, or had another and more serious cause for emotion; for his perky face turned red, and his manner as he stood holding the door half-open, and gaping at the visitor, was that of a man taken in the act, and thoroughly ashamed of himself.  Sir George might have wondered what was afoot, if he had not espied over the lawyer’s shoulder a round wooden table littered with papers, and guessed that Mr. Fishwick was doing the widow’s business—­a theory which Mr. Fishwick’s first words, on recovering himself, bore out.

‘I am here—­on business,’ he said, cringing and rubbing his hands.  ’I don’t—­I don’t think that you can object, Sir George.’

‘I?’ said Soane, staring at him in astonishment and some contempt.  ’My good man, what has it to do with me?  You got my letter?’

‘And the draft, Sir George!’ Mr. Fishwick bowed low.  ’Certainly, certainly, sir.  Too much honoured.  Which, as I understood, put an end to any—­I mean it not offensively, honoured sir—­to any connection between us?’

Sir George nodded.  ‘I have my own lawyers in London,’ he said stiffly.  ‘I thought I made it clear that I did not need your services further.’

Mr. Fishwick rubbed his hands.  ’I have that from your own lips, Sir George,’ he said.  ‘Mrs. Masterson, my good woman, you heard that?’

Sir George glowered at him.  ‘Lord, man?’ he said.  ’Why so much about nothing?  What on earth has this woman to do with it?’

Mr. Fishwick trembled with excitement.  ’Mrs. Masterson, you will not answer,’ he stammered.

Sir George first stared, then cursed his impudence; then, remembering that after all this was not his business, or that on which he had come, and being one of those obstinates whom opposition but precipitates to their ends, ‘Hark ye, man, stand aside,’ he said.  ’I did not come here to talk to you.  And do you, my good woman, attend to me a moment.  I have a word to say about your daughter.’