In the expansive mood of convalescence, Cecil Morphew left no detail of his story unrevealed.

He was of gentle birth, and had a private income of three hundred pounds, charged upon the estate of a distant relative; his profession (the bar) could not be remunerative for years, and other prospects he had none.

The misery of his situation lay in the fact that he was desperately in love with the daughter of people who looked upon him as little better than a pauper.

The girl had pledged herself to him, but would not marry without her parents' consent, of which there was no hope till he had at least trebled his means.

His choice of a profession was absurd, dictated merely by social opinion; he should have been working hard in a commercial office, or at some open-air pursuit.