Of course the preliminary examination was easily and quickly passed.  David translated his bit of Caesar’s commentaries, answered brilliantly the questions about Alfred the Great, the Anglo-Norman kings, the Constitutions of Clarendon, Magna Charta and Mortmain, Henry the Eighth and the Reformation, the Civil War and Protectorate of Cromwell, the Bill of Rights and the Holy Alliance.  He paid his fees and his “caution” money; he ate the requisite six dinners—­or more, as he found them excellent and convenient—­in each term, attended all the lectures that interested him, and passed the subsidiary examinations on them with fair or even high credit; and finally got through his “Call-to-the-Bar” examination with tolerable success; at any rate he passed.  A friend of the deceased Stansfield—­whose death was always one of the scars in Vivie’s memory—­introduced him to one of the Masters of the Bench who signed his “call” papers.  He once more made a declaration to the effect that he was not a person in Holy Orders, that he was not a Solicitor, Attorney-at-law, Writer to the Signet, etc., etc., a Chartered, Incorporated or Professional Accountant; and again that if called to the Bar, he would never become a member of the abhorred professions over and over again enumerated; and was duly warned that without special permission of the Masters of the Bench of the Inner Temple he might not practise “under the Bar”—­whatever that may mean (I dare say it is some low-down procedure, only allowed in times of scarcity).  Then after having his name “screened” for twelve days in all the Halls of the four Inns, and going in fear and trembling that some one might turn up and object, he finally received his call to the Bar on April 22 (if April 22 in that year was on a Sunday, then on the following Monday) and was “called” at the Term Dinner where he took wine with the Masters.  He remembered seeing present at the great table on the dais, besides the usual red-faced generals and whiskered admirals, simpering statesmen, and his dearly loved friend, Michael Rossiter—­representing Science,—­a more sinister face.  This was the well-known philanthropist and race-horse breeder, Sir George Crofts, Bart., M.P. for a Norfolk borough.  Their eyes met, curiously interlocked for a moment.  Sir George wondered to himself where the dooce he had seen that, type of face before, those grey eyes with the dark lashes.  “Gad! he reminds me of Kitty Warren!  Well, I’ll be damned” (he was eventually) “I wonder whether the old gal had a son as well as that spitfire Vivie?!”

Michael whispered a word or two to one of the Masters, and David was presently summoned to attend the Benchers and their distinguished guests in the inner chamber to which they withdrew for wine and dessert.  Rossiter made room for him, and he had to drink a glass of port with the Benchers.  Every one was very gracious.  Rossiter said:  “I was a sort of godfather to him, don’t you know.  David! you must do me credit and make haste to take