Miss Verinder went back to the sitting-room, and I went upstairs to Mr.

Blake.

To my surprise I found him alone; restlessly pacing his room, and a

little irritated at being left by himself.

"Where is Mr. Bruff?" I asked.

He pointed to the closed door of communication between the two rooms.

Mr. Bruff had looked in on him, for a moment; had attempted to renew his

protest against our proceedings; and had once more failed to produce the

smallest impression on Mr. Blake. Upon this, the lawyer had taken refuge

in a black leather bag, filled to bursting with professional papers.

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"The serious business of life," he admitted, "was sadly out of place on

such an occasion as the present. But the serious business of life

must be carried on, for all that. Mr. Blake would perhaps kindly make

allowance for the old-fashioned habits of a practical man. Time was

money--and, as for Mr. Jennings, he might depend on it that Mr. Bruff

would be forthcoming when called upon." With that apology, the lawyer

had gone back to his own room, and had immersed himself obstinately in

his black bag.

I thought of Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and of Betteredge and

his conscience. There is a wonderful sameness in the solid side of the

English character--just as there is a wonderful sameness in the solid

expression of the English face.

"When are you going to give me the laudanum?" asked Mr. Blake

impatiently.

"You must wait a little longer," I said. "I will stay and keep you

company till the time comes."

It was then not ten o'clock. Inquiries which I had made, at various

times, of Betteredge and Mr. Blake, had led me to the conclusion that

the dose of laudanum given by Mr. Candy could not possibly have been

administered before eleven. I had accordingly determined not to try the

second dose until that time.

We talked a little; but both our minds were preoccupied by the coming

ordeal. The conversation soon flagged--then dropped altogether. Mr.

Blake idly turned over the books on his bedroom table. I had taken

the precaution of looking at them, when we first entered the room. THE

GUARDIAN; THE TATLER; Richardson's PAMELA; Mackenzie's MAN OF FEELING;

Roscoe's LORENZO DE MEDICI; and Robertson's CHARLES THE FIFTH--all

classical works; all (of course) immeasurably superior to anything

produced in later times; and all (from my present point of view)

possessing the one great merit of enchaining nobody's interest, and

exciting nobody's brain. I left Mr. Blake to the composing influence

of Standard Literature, and occupied myself in making this entry in my

journal.




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