'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.'
'Will you?' said Michael, and he rose and rang for his clerk.
It was now time, according to Sir Faraday Bond, the medical baronet
whose name is so familiar at the foot of bulletins, that Joseph (the
poor Golden Goose) should be removed into the purer air of Bournemouth;
and for that uncharted wilderness of villas the family now shook off
the dust of Bloomsbury; Julia delighted, because at Bournemouth she
sometimes made acquaintances; John in despair, for he was a man of city
tastes; Joseph indifferent where he was, so long as there was pen and
ink and daily papers, and he could avoid martyrdom at the office; Morris
himself, perhaps, not displeased to pretermit these visits to the city,
and have a quiet time for thought.
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