They had tea together and Vivie plunged as quickly as possible into
her problem.
"You know, Praddy dear, I want to be a Barrister. But as a female
they will never call me to the Bar. So I'm going to send Vivien
Warren off for a long absence abroad--the few who think about me
will probably conclude that money has carried the day and that I've
gone to help my mother in her business--and in her absence Mr.
Vavasour Williams will take up the running. David V. Williams--don't
interrupt me--will study for the Bar, eat through his terms--six
dinners a year, isn't it?--pass his examinations, and be called to
the English Bar in about three years from now. Didn't you once have
a pupil called Vavasour Williams?"
_Praed_: "What, David, the Welsh boy? Yes. His name reminded me of
your mother in one of her stages. David Vavasour Williams. I took
him on in--let me see? I think it was in 1895 or early 1896. But how
did you hear about him?"
_Vivie_: "Never mind, or never mind for the moment. Tell me some
more about him."
_Praed_: "Well to sum him up briefly he was what school boys and
subalterns would call 'a rotter.' Not without an almost mordid
cleverness; but the Welsh strain in him which in the father turned
to emotional religion--the father was Vicar or Rector of
Pontystrad--came out in the boy in unhealthy fancies. He had almost
the talent of Aubrey Beardsley.
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