at Dornington, and Dornington had gone off not at all pleased. And now Dornington was by the sea, and he was here. The flies buzzed in the panes and round the sticky marmalade jar; the sun poured in at the open window. There was no work to do. Stephen was a solicitor by trade; but, in fact and perforce, an idler. No business came to him. All day long the steps of clients sounded on the dirty, old wooden staircase—clients for Robinson on the second, for Jones on the fourth, but none for Guillemot on the third. Even now steps were coming, though it was only ten o’clock. The young man glanced at the marmalade jar, at the crooked cloth stained with tea, which his laundress had spread for his breakfast.
“Suppose it is a client” He broke off with a laugh. He had never been able to cure himself of that old hope that some day the feet of a client—a wealthy client—would pause at his door, but the feet had always gone by—as these would do. The steps did indeed pass his door, paused, came back, and—oh wonder! it was his knocker that awoke the Temple echoes.
He glanced at the table. It was hopeless. He shrugged his shoulders.
