“When old Melrose broke out!” Tatham threw back his head and gurgled with laughter.  “I suppose you know that nobody but yourself has ever had bite or sup in this house for twenty years, unless it were some of the dealers, who—­they say—­come occasionally.  What have you done to him?  You’ve cast a spell on him!”

Faversham replied again that he had done nothing, and was as much puzzled as anybody.

“My mother was afraid you would be anything but comfortable,” said Tatham.  “She knows this gentleman of old.  But she didn’t know your powers of soothing the savage breast!  However, you have only to say the word, and we shall be delighted to take you in for as long as you like.”

“Oh, I must stay here now,” said Faversham decidedly.  “One couldn’t be ungrateful for what has been done.  But my best thanks to Lady Tatham all the same.  I hope I may get over to see her some day.”

“You must, of course.  Dixon tells me there is a carriage coming—­perhaps a motor; why not!”

A flush rose in Faversham’s pale cheek.

“Mr. Melrose talked of hiring one yesterday,” he said, unwillingly.  “How far are you?”

They fell into talk about Duddon and the neighbourhood, avoiding any further discussion of Melrose.  Then Faversham described his accident, and spoke warmly of Undershaw, an occupation in which Tatham heartily joined.

“I owe my life to him,” said Faversham; adding with sudden sharpness, “I suppose I must count it an advantage!”

“That would be the common way of looking at it!” laughed Tatham.  “What are you doing just now?”

“Nothing in particular.  I am one of the large tribe of briefless barristers.  I suppose I’ve never given enough of my mind to it.  The fact is I don’t like the law—­never have.  I’ve tried other things—­fatal, of course!—­but they haven’t come off, or at least only very moderately.  But, as you may suppose—­I’m not exactly penniless.  I have a few resources—­just enough to live on—­without a wife.”

Tatham felt a little awkward.  Faversham’s tone was already that of a man to some extent disappointed and embittered.

“You had always so much more brains than the rest of us,” he said cordially.  “You’ll be all right.”

“It’s not brains that matter nowadays—­it’s money.  What do you get by brains?  A civil service appointment—­and a pension of seven hundred a year.  What’s the good of slaving for that?”

Faversham turned to his companion with a smile, in which however there was no good-humour.  It made Tatham disagreeably conscious of his own wealth.

“Well, of course, there are the prizes—­”

“A few.  So few that they don’t count.  A man may grind for years, and get passed over or forgotten—­just by a shave—­at the end.  I’ve seen that happen often.  Or you get on swimmingly for a while, and everybody supposes you’re going to romp in; and then something crops up you never thought of.  Some boss takes a dislike to you—­or you make a mistake, and cut your own throat.  And there you are—­pulled!”