The conversation was cool and indifferent.  The legal gentlemen moved about with a professional and indifferent air, as if they assisted at such an occasion as medical students at dissections.  It was in the way of business.  As Mr. Quiddy, the confidential counsel of the late lamented Mr. Burt, looked at Mrs. Alfred Dinks, he remarked to Mr. Baze, a younger member of the bar, anxious to appear well in the eyes of Quiddy, that it was a pity the friends of deceased parties permitted their disappointments to overpower them upon these occasions.  Saying which, Mr. Quiddy waved his forefinger in the air, while Mr. Baze, in a deferential manner and tone, answered, Certainly, because they could not help themselves.  There was no getting round a will drawn as that will was—­here a slight bow to Mr. Quiddy, who had drawn the will, was interpolated—­and if people didn’t like what they got, they had better grin and bear it.  Mr. Quiddy further remarked, with the forefinger still wandering in the air as if restlessly seeking for some argument to point, that the silver shoe-buckles which had so long been identified with the quaint costume of Mr. Burt, would be a very pretty and interesting heir-loom in the family of young Mr. Dinks.

Upon which the eminent confidential counsel took snuff, and while he flirted the powder from his fingers looked at his young friend Baze.

Young Mr. Baze said, “Very interesting!” and continued the attitude of listening for further wisdom from his superior.

Lawrence Newt meanwhile had narrowly watched his niece Fanny.  Nobody else cared to approach her; but he went over to her presently.

“Well, Fanny.”

“Well, Uncle Lawrence.”

“Beautiful place, Fanny.”

“Is it?”

“So peaceful after the city.”

“I prefer town.”

“Fanny!”

“Uncle Lawrence.”

“What are you going to do?”

She had not looked at him before, but now she raised her eyes to his.  She might as well have closed them.  Dropping them, she looked upon the floor and said nothing.

“I’m sorry for you, Fanny.”

She looked fierce.  There was a snake-like stealthiness in her appearance, which Alfred’s mother saw across the room and trembled.  Then she raised her eyes again to her uncle’s, and said, with a kind of hissing sneer,

“Indeed, Uncle Lawrence, thank you for nothing.  It’s not very hard for you to be sorry.”

Not dismayed, not even surprised by this speech, Lawrence was about to reply, but she struck in,

“No, no; I don’t want to hear it.  I’ve been cheated, and I’ll have my revenge.  As for you, my respected uncle, you have played your cards better.”

He was surprised and perplexed.

“Why, Fanny, what cards?  What do you mean?”

“I mean that an old fox is a sly fox,” said she, with the hissing sneer.

Lawrence looked at her in amazement.