ed to call it. I don't mean I was ever in the Dick
Turpin line, but a commercial gentleman, you know. Well, I've made my
way since. You'll have to make yours, with more help than I ever had,
though.'

Mark led the way up a steep little passage and into the well-known
room, with its boxes darkened by age, its saw-dusted floor and quaint
carved Jacobean mantelpiece. He chose a compartment well down at the
bottom of the room.

'What's your partickler preference, eh?' said Uncle Solomon, rather as
if he was treating a schoolboy. 'What's their speciality 'ere, now?
Well, you can give me,' he added to the waiter, with the manner of a
man conferring a particular favour, 'you can give me a chump chop,
underdone, and a sausage. And bring this young gentleman the same. I
don't care about anything 'eavier at this time o' day,' he explained.

Mark talked on all kinds of topics with desperate brilliancy for some
time; he wanted time before approaching _the_ subject.

Uncle Solomon broached it for him. 'You'll want a regler set o'
chambers by-and-by,' he said; 'I've seen a room down Middle Temple
Lane that'll do for you for the present. When the briefs begin to come
in, we'll see about something better. I was talkin' about you to
Ferret the other day,' he went on. 'It'll be all right; he's goin' to
instruct their London agent to send you in a little something that you
can try your 'prentice hand at directly. Isn't _that_ be'aving like an
uncle to you, eh? I hope you will go and do me credit over it; that's
the only way you can pay me back a little--I ask but that of you,
Mark.'

For all his bumptiousness and despotism, there was a real kindness,
possibly not of the purest and most unselfish order, but still
kindness in his manner, and Mark felt a pang at having to reward it as
he must.

The meal was over now, and Uncle Solomon was finishing the glass of
whisky and water before him. 'Well,' he said, as he set it down, 'we'd
better be off to the place where I'm to pay the fees for you. Ah, what
you young fellows cost to start nowadays!'

'That's it,' said Mark; 'I--I would rather not cost you anything,
uncle.'

'It's rather late in the day to be partickler about that, _I_ should
say.'

'It is. I feel that; but I mean, I don't want to cost you any _more_.'

'What d'ye mean by that?'

'I mean that I don't care about being called to the Bar at present.'

'Don't you? Well, I do, so let that be enough for you. If I'm willing