do, Morris.’
It was in vain that the leather merchant pleaded and reasoned, and returned day after day to plead and reason. It was in vain that he offered a bonus of one thousand, of two thousand, of three thousand pounds; in vain that he offered, in Joseph’s name, to be content with only one-third of the pool. Still there came the same answer: ‘It won’t do.’
‘I can’t see the bottom of this,’ he said at last. ‘You answer none of my arguments; you haven’t a word to say. For my part, I believe it’s malice.’
The lawyer smiled at him benignly. ‘You may believe one thing,’ said he. ‘Whatever else I do, I am not going to gratify any of your curiosity. You see I am a trifle more communicative today, because this is our last interview upon the subject.’
‘Our last interview!’ cried Morris.
‘The stirrup-cup, dear boy,’ returned Michael. ‘I can’t have my business hours encroached upon. And, by the by, have you no business of your own? Are there no convulsions in the leather trade?’
‘I believe it to be malice,’ repeated Morris doggedly. ‘You always hated and despised me from a boy.’
‘No, no—not hated,’ returned Michael soothingly. ‘I rather like you than otherwise; there’s such a permanent surprise about you, you look so dark and attractive from a distance. Do you know that to the naked eye you look romantic?—like what they call a man with a history? And indeed, from all that I can hear, the history of the leather trade is full of incident.’
‘Yes,’ said Morris, disregarding these remarks, ‘it’s no use coming here. I shall see your father.’
‘O no, you won’t,’ said Michael. ‘Nobody shall see my father.’
‘I should like to know why,’ cried his cousin.
‘I never make any secret of that,’ replied the lawyer. ‘He is too ill.’
‘If he is as ill as you say,’ cried the other, ‘the more reason for accepting my proposal. I will see him.’
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