Mr. Thompson agitated his eyebrows dreadfully.  He was utterly lost.  He respected Sir Austin’s estates too much to believe for a moment he was listening to downright folly.  Yet how otherwise explain the fact of his excellent client being incomprehensible to him?  For a middle-aged gentleman, and one who has been in the habit of advising and managing, will rarely have a notion of accusing his understanding; and Mr. Thompson had not the slightest notion of accusing his.  But the baronet’s condescension in coming thus to him, and speaking on the subject nearest his heart, might well affect him, and he quickly settled the case in favour of both parties, pronouncing mentally that his honoured client had a meaning, and so deep it was, so subtle, that no wonder he experienced difficulty in giving it fitly significant words.

Sir Austin elaborated his theory of the Organism and the Mechanism, for his lawyer’s edification.  At a recurrence of the word “healthy” Mr. Thompson caught him up: 

“I apprehended you!  Oh, I agree with you, Sir Austin! entirely!  Allow me to ring for my son Ripton.  I think, if you condescend to examine him, you will say that regular habits, and a diet of nothing but law-reading—­ for other forms of literature I strictly interdict—­have made him all that you instance.”

Mr. Thompson’s hand was on the bell.  Sir Austin arrested him.

“Permit me to see the lad at his occupation,” said he.

Our old friend Ripton sat in a room apart with the confidential clerk, Mr. Beazley, a veteran of law, now little better than a document, looking already signed and sealed, and shortly to be delivered, who enjoined nothing from his pupil and companion save absolute silence, and sounded his praises to his father at the close of days when it had been rigidly observed—­not caring, or considering, the finished dry old document that he was, under what kind of spell a turbulent commonplace youth could be charmed into stillness for six hours of the day.  Ripton was supposed to be devoted to the study of Blackstone.  A tome of the classic legal commentator lay extended outside his desk, under the partially lifted lid of which nestled the assiduous student’s head—­law being thus brought into direct contact with his brain-pan.  The office-door opened, and he heard not; his name was called, and he remained equally moveless.  His method of taking in Blackstone seemed absorbing as it was novel.

“Comparing notes, I daresay,” whispered Mr. Thompson to Sir Austin.  “I call that study!”

The confidential clerk rose, and bowed obsequious senility.

“Is it like this every day, Beazley?” Mr. Thompson asked with parental pride.

“Ahem!” the old clerk replied, “he is like this every day, sir.  I could not ask more of a mouse.”

Sir Austin stepped forward to the desk.  His proximity roused one of Ripton’s senses, which blew a pall to the others.  Down went the lid of the desk.  Dismay, and the ardours of study, flashed together in Ripton’s face.  He slouched from his perch with the air of one who means rather to defend his position than welcome a superior, the right hand in his waistcoat pocket fumbling a key, the left catching at his vacant stool.