Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine in expecting success for his friend at the Bar, than Stanbury had been for himself.

It might well be that such a man as Trevelyan might think that a clever rising barrister would be an excellent husband for his sister-in-law, but that a man earning a precarious living as a writer for a penny paper would be by no means so desirable a connection.
Stanbury, as he thought of this, declared to himself that he would not care two straws for Trevelyan in the matter, if he could see his way without other impediments.

But the other impediments were there in such strength and numbers as to make him feel that it could not have been intended by Fate that he should take to himself a wife.
Although those letters of his to the Daily Record had been so pre-eminently successful, he had never yet been able to earn by writing above twenty-five or thirty pounds a month.

If that might be continued to him he could live upon it himself; but, even with his moderate views, it would not suffice for himself and family.
He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister he had no means of subsistence.

In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was not strictly correct.