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.