Mr Hugh Stanbury had been at college the most intimate friend of Louis Trevelyan, and at Oxford had been, in spite of Trevelyan’s successes, a bigger man than his friend.  Stanbury had not taken so high a degree as Trevelyan, indeed had not gone out in honours at all.  He had done little for the credit of his college, and had never put himself in the way of wrapping himself up for life in the scanty lambswool of a fellowship.  But he had won for himself reputation as a clever speaker, as a man who had learned much that college tutors do not profess to teach, as a hard-headed, ready-witted fellow, who, having the world as an oyster before him, which it was necessary that he should open, would certainly find either a knife or a sword with which to open it.

Immediately on leaving college he had come to town, and had entered himself at Lincoln’s Inn.  Now, at the time of our story, he was a barrister of four years’ standing, but had never yet made a guinea.  He had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and was beginning to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so.  Not, as he knew well, that guineas are generally made with ease by barristers of four years’ standing, but because, as he said to his friends, he did not see his way to the knack of it.  He did not know an attorney in the world, and could not conceive how any attorney should ever be induced to apply to him for legal aid.  He had done his work of learning his trade about as well as other young men, but had had no means of distinguishing himself within his reach.  He went the Western Circuit because his aunt, old Miss Stanbury, lived at Exeter, but, as he declared of himself, had he had another aunt living at York, he would have had nothing whatsoever to guide him in his choice.  He sat idle in the courts, and hated himself for so sitting.  So it had been with him for two years without any consolation or additional burden from other employment than that of his profession.  After that, by some chance, he had become acquainted with the editor of the Daily Record, and by degrees had taken to the writing of articles.  He had been told by all his friends, and especially by Trevelyan, that if he did this, he might as well sell his gown and wig.  He declared, in reply, that he had no objection to sell his gown and wig.  He did not see how he should ever make more money out of them than he would do by such sale.  But for the articles which he wrote, he received instant payment, a process which he found to be most consolatory, most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan, as warm to him as a blanket in winter.