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Satan was a horrible cat. Sunil had felt his claws literally hundreds of times, since his job included interposing himself between those claws and customers blithely reaching for the latest Figaro or Argosy. It wasn’t fun cleaning up mouse entrails, either, but it was a price he willingly paid: his small room of his own on Paternoster Row was a haven after years in crowded, cramped Shad Thames.
At least the cat was vile to everyone—even Mr. Lawless and Mr. Pandey. So Sunil was shocked speechless when he saw their visitor from India merrily dandling the cat with impunity.
“Mate, it’s bloody good to see you,” Mark said. “Though Ma’s now dreaming about getting herself arrested again. How she got from ‘Ganendra’s here on holiday’ to ‘Ganendra’s training up a shiny new lawyer for me’—”
“Sorry,” Ganendra said, with a rueful smile. “Vik was holding forth about one of his proteges. Your mother may well have caught a bit of that and leapt to a conclusion that suited her.”
Mark sighed. “She and half my clients, birds of a feather. Too bloody fixed on how the world ought to be.”
“Well, Vik is too,” Ganendra cheerfully pointed out.
When Ganendra attended a picnic organized by a former classmate, he found himself thinking of Mark’s mother while observing Arabella Gupta’s enjoyment of the event. Vik had made a point of introducing the bright little girl to a trio of suffragists, and her voice got louder and happier as the group collectively dissected the Women’s Union Journal and Englishwoman’s Review one of the ladies, Agda, happened to have with her.
“Well done, old friend,” Ganendra said to Vik. “She’s practically already under their wings.”
“Lincoln’s Inn needs better clerks,” Vik said, “and Agda can teach her shorthand. I'm letting myself hope.”