Free Penhallow by Georgette Heyer Page B

humour, saying: ‘Well, Faith! This is very nice of you! How are you, my dear? How’s Uncle Adam? And my mother? All well, eh? Sit down, and tell me all the news!’
    Not being in the mood for an exchange of ordinary civilities, Faith wasted no time in answering his inquiries, but plunged at once into the nature of her errand to him. ‘Cliff, I’ve come to beg you to help me!’
    He retreated again to his chair behind the desk. A look of slight uneasiness crossed his placid features, for although he was a kindly man, he shared, in common with the majority of his fellow-creatures, a dread of becoming entangled in another person’s trials. However, he folded his hands on the blotter before him, and said cheerfully: ‘Anything I can do to help you of course I should be only too glad to do! What is it?’
    She sat bolt upright in the chair on the other side of the desk, gripping her handbag between her nervous hands. ‘It’s about Clay!’ she said breathlessly.
    The look of uneasiness on Cliffs face deepened. He carefully rearranged various small objects in front of him, and replied: ‘About Clay! Oh, yes! Quite! As a matter of fact, Uncle Adam sent for me a couple of days ago to talk to me about him.’
    ‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘He told me today. Cliff’, you mustn’t take him! Please say you won’t consent!’
    He perceived that this was going to be an extremely difficult interview. ‘Well, but, Faith-’
    ‘I suppose Adam is going to pay you to take him, but I know that wouldn’t weigh with you! I don’t know how these things are arranged, but-’
    ‘It simply means that he’ll be articled to me,’ he explained, glad of the opportunity afforded to lead her away from the main point at issue. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll-’
    ‘He’d hate it!’ she declared vehemently. ‘Adam’s only doing it because he’s never liked Clay, and he delights in upsetting me! Clay is going to write!’
    ‘Well, well, I don’t know any reason why he shouldn’t write, if he has a bent that way. In his spare time, you know.’
    She said impatiently: ‘You don’t understand. It would be death to Clay to be cooped up in a stuffy office, slaving over a lot of horrible deeds and things. He isn’t cut out for it.’
    He looked a little startled. He was not very well acquainted with Clay Penhallow, the boy being twenty years his junior, but he had not supposed, from the little he’d seen of him, that he was made of such fiery metal   as could not endure to be confined within four walls. He said feebly: ‘Oh, well, you know, it’s not such a bad life! Not like a London practice, you know. I mean; I see that the lad reared as he has been it would be a bit trying for him to be obliged to live in London all the year round. But you take my life! Of course, I can’t spare the time my cousins can, but I manage to hunt once a week, and sometimes twice, and I get quite a bit of fishing, besides ‘
    ‘It isn’t that! Clay isn’t interested in sport. He would like to live in London! But he’s artistic! It would simply kill him to be tied to a desk!’
    If Clifford felt that a young gentleman of this character would scarcely be an asset to the firm of Blazey, Blazey, Hastings, and Wembury, he concealed it, merely remarking: ‘I see. Quite!’
    ‘Besides, I don’t want him to be a solicitor,’ continued Faith. ‘Or even a barrister. I mean, it isn’t in the least his line for one thing, and for another, I should simply hate a son of mine to spend his time defending people whom he knew to be guilty.’
    This ill-formed view of the activities of barristers-at law made Clifford blink, but since Clay was not destined for the Bar there seemed to be little point in disabusing his mother’s mind of its feminine belief that every barrister spent his life defending blood-stained criminals. He did indeed wonder vaguely why a barrister should be almost invariably credited, first, with a criminal practice, and second, with a