"Any place," the girl exclaimed as she entered, "more unlike a solicitor's office, I never saw! Flowers outside and flowers on your desk, Mr. Pengarth!
Don't you have to apologize to your clients for your surroundings? There's absolutely nothing, except the brass plate outside, to show that this isn't an old-fashioned farmhouse, stuck down in the middle of a village. Fuchsias in the window sill, too!"He placed a chair for her, and laid down the deed which he had been examining, with a little sigh of relief. It really was very hard work pretending to be busy.
"You see, Miss Juliet," he explained with twinkling eyes, "my clients are all country folk, and it makes them feel more at home to find a lawyer's office not very different from their own parlor."She nodded.
"What would the great man say?" she inquired, pointing to the rows of black tin boxes which lined the walls.
"Sir Wingrave Seton is never likely to come here again, I am afraid," he answered. "If he did, I don't think he'd mind. To tell you the truth, I'm rather proud of my office, young lady!"She looked around.
"They are nice," she said decidedly, "but unbusinesslike.""You're going to put up the pony and stay to lunch, of course?" he said. "I'll ring for the boy."She stopped him.
"Please don't!" she exclaimed. "I have come to see you--on business!"Mr. Pengarth, after his first gasp of astonishment, was a different man. He fumbled about on the desk, and produced a pair of gold spectacles, which he adjusted with great nicety on the edge of his very short nose.
"On business, my dear!" he repeated. "Well, well! To be sure! Is it Miss Harrison who has sent you?"Mr. Pengarth's visitor looked positively annoyed. She leaned across the table towards him so that the roses in her large hat almost brushed his forehead.
Her wonderful brown eyes were filled with reproach.
"Mr. Pengarth," she said, "do you know how old I am?""How old, my dear? Why, let me see!" he exclaimed. "Fourteen and--why, God bless my soul, you must be eighteen!""I am nineteen years old, Mr. Pengarth," the young lady announced with dignity. "Perhaps you will be kind enough to treat me now--er--with a little more respect.""Nineteen!" he repeated vaguely. God bless my--nineteen years old?""I consider myself," she repeated, "of age. I have come to see you about my affairs!""Yes, yes!" he said. "Quite natural."
"For four years," she continued, "I seem to have been supported by some relative of my father, who has never vouchsafed to send me a single line or message except through you. I have written letters which I have given to you to forward. There has been no reply. Have you sent on those letters, Mr. Pengarth?"
"Why certainly, my dear, certainly!"
"Can you tell me how it is that I have had no answer?"Mr. Pengarth coughed. He was not at all comfortable.
"Your guardian, Miss Juliet, is somewhat eccentric," he answered, "and he is a very busy man.""Can you tell me, Mr. Pengarth, exactly what relation he is to me?"There was a dead silence. Mr. Pengarth found the room suddenly warm, and mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.
"I have no authority," he declared, "to answer any questions.""Then can you tell me of your own accord," she said, "why there is all this mystery? Why may I not know who he is, why may I not write to him? Am Ianything to be ashamed of, that he will not trust me even with his name? I am tired of accepting so much and not being able to offer even my thanks in return. It is too much like charity! I have made up my mind that if this is to go on, I will go away and earn my own living! There, Mr. Pengarth!""Rubbish!" he exclaimed briskly. "What at?"
"Painting!" she declared triumphantly. "I have had this in my mind for some time, and I have been trying to see what I can do best. I have quite decided, now, to be an artist.""Pictures," he declared sententiously, "don't sell!""Mine do," she answered, smiling. "I have had a check for three guineas from a shop in London for a little sea piece I did in two afternoons!"He regarded her admiringly.
"You are a wonderful child!" he exclaimed.
