Mr. Fishwick looked rather blue.  ’If it has nothing to do with her property,’ he said reluctantly, and as if he had gone too far.

‘Property!’ said Mr. Thomasson, gasping.

‘Or her affairs.’

‘Affairs!’ the tutor cried.  ’I never heard of a bedmaker having affairs.’

‘Well,’ said the lawyer doggedly, and with the air of a man goaded into telling what he wished to conceal, ’she is leaving Oxford.  That is the fact.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Thomasson, falling on a sudden into the minor key.  ’And her daughter?’

‘And her daughter.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ the tutor answered, thoughtfully rubbing his hands.  ’The truth is—­the girl proved so good a nurse in the case of my noble friend who was injured the other day—­my lord Viscount Dunborough’s son, a most valuable life—­that since she absented herself, he has not made the same progress.  And as I am responsible for him—­’

‘She should never have attended him!’ the attorney answered with unexpected sharpness.

‘Indeed!  And why not, may I ask?’ the tutor inquired.

Mr. Fishwick did not answer the question.  Instead, ’She would not have gone to him in the first instance,’ he said, ’but that she was under a misapprehension.’

‘A misapprehension?’

‘She thought that the duel lay at her door,’ the attorney answered; ’and in that belief was impelled to do what she could to undo the consequences.  Romantic, but a most improper step!’

‘Improper!’ said the tutor, much ruffled.  ‘And why, sir?’

‘Most improper,’ the attorney repeated in a dry, business-like tone.  ’I am instructed that the gentleman had for weeks past paid her attentions which, his station considered, could scarcely be honourable, and of which she had more than once expressed her dislike.  Under those circumstances, to expose her to his suit—­but no more need be said,’ the attorney added, breaking off and taking a pinch of snuff with great enjoyment, ‘as she is leaving the city.’

Mr. Thomasson had much ado to mask his chagrin under a show of contemptuous incredulity.  ‘The wench has too fine a conceit of herself!’ he blurted out.  ’Hark you, sir—­this is a fable!  I wonder you dare to put it about.  A gentleman of the station of my lord Dunborough’s son does not condescend to the gutter!’

‘I will convey the remark to my client,’ said the attorney, bristling all over.

‘Client!’ Mr. Thomasson retorted, trembling with rage—­for he saw the advantage he had given the enemy.  ’Since when had laundry maids lawyers?  Client!  Pho!  Begone, sir!  You are abusive.  I’ll have you looked up on the rolls.  I’ll have your name taken!’

‘I would not talk of names if I were you,’ cried Mr. Fishwick, reddening in his turn with rage.  ’Men give a name to what you are doing this morning, and it is not a pleasant one.  It is to be hoped, sir, that Mr. Dunborough pays you well for your services!’