“You have hit the difficulty exactly,” said Edgar, laughing. “To tell the truth, I don’t know. What do you suppose I could do best? There must be many men in my position, left in the lurch by circumstances--and they must have some way of providing for themselves. What do they generally do?” “Go to the dogs,” said Mr. Parchemin, succinctly, for he was still offended, and had not yet forgiven his impracticable client. “I sha’n’t do that,” said Edgar as briefly--and with, for the first time, and for one of the first times in his life, a shade of offence on his face. “There are a good many other things they try to do,” said Mr. Parchemin; “for instance they take pupils--most men feel themselves capable of that when they are driven to it; or they get into a public office, if they have interest and can pass the examination; or they read for the bar if they have friends who can support them for a dozen years; or they write for the papers--” “Stop a little,” said Edgar; “I have no friends to support me--I can’t write--I don’t think I could pass an examination--” “After twenty, and unless you’ve been crammed for the purpose, I don’t know anyone who could,” said Mr. Parchemin, solemnly. “And I doubt whether I could teach anything that any man in his senses would wish to know.” “I doubt it also,” said the lawyer, “judging, if you will pardon me for saying so, by your guidance of your own affairs.” “But a tutor does not teach boys how to guide their own affairs,” said Edgar, recovering his sense of the joke. “That is true too. A man may be very wise in giving good advice, and admirable on paper, and yet be fool enough in other respects. There was Goldsmith, for instance. But why shouldn’t you write? Plenty of stupid fellows write in the papers. You are not stupid--” “Thanks,” cried Edgar, laughing. “Of course, you have read what Thackeray says on that subject--in ‘Pendennis,’ you know--how it is all a knack that anybody can learn; and it pays very well, I have always heard. There is no sort of nonsense that people will not read. I don’t see why you should not try the newspapers; if you know any one on the staff of the _Times_, for instance--that is a splendid opening--or even the _News_ or the _Telegraph_.” “But, alas, I don’t know anyone.” “Do you mean to say you never met any of those press fellows? when you were a great man, you know, when you were fashionable? At your club, for instance? You must have met some of them. Think! Why, they go everywhere, it’s their trade; they must have news. And, by the way, they have made their own of you first and last; the Arden estate, and the law-suit that was to be, and the noble behaviour of the unfortunate gentleman, &c., &c. You have figured in many a paragraph. Some of them you must know.” “Newmarch used to dabble in literature,” said Edgar, doubtfully.