“Well, I should not say you are a writer of fiction. They are so tame. Besides they are all nearly as rich as solicitors.” “Why not a poet?” “Why not? although your fierceness would make you a dramatic, not a lyric one. Still it is impossible for you to be a poet, because I am sure that Witty would never have climbed up all those stairs to your miserable garret--I feel sure it is a garret with a sloping roof with a hole in it--” “There is a pool under the hole which has been caused by the percolation of water--” “On to the atrocious bare boards, its occupant being much too poor to afford a carpet. Yes, Witty would never have climbed up to your garret if you had been a poet. Or stay, he might, had you been Mrs. Felicia Hemans. As you are a seeker of documentary evidence, he has been known to recite her poems, at the request of the rector of this parish, to a Sunday-school party.” “Base woman,” said the solicitor, with an air of injury; “I claim to be an admirer of the poet Longfellow.” “Never, Witty, in your heart; it is merely your fatal craving to be respectable in all things. But in the matter of poetry you must be content to remain outside. You would never have climbed those rickety stairs to that cold garret to see John Keats.” “Well, now, Featherhead, did I not tell you at the first that our young friend was England’s future Lord Chancellor?” “I will never believe that; I will never believe that his destiny is the law. His eye has amazing flashes; and is there not a beautiful eloquence burning in his mouth? I cannot think of him as rich Witty, and successful Witty, and smug Witty, like you atrocious lawyers. He is one who would be an overthrower of dynasties, a saviour of societies.” “You are letting your tongue wag, Noodle. If you talk so much it will take the young man until daybreak to unfold his story.” “I am an advocate,” said Northcote. “An advocate,” said the lady softly; “yes, I think you may be that. One no more associates an advocate with the law than one associates a poet with a publisher.” “You would say,” said Northcote, “that it is the function of an advocate to draw his sword for the truth, for progress, for justice, for every human amenity?” “I would, indeed. Why, if one thinks about it, surely it is nobler to be an advocate than to be a poet or a soldier. One might say it was the highest calling in the world.” “Then let us say it,” said the young man, “for I verily believe it to be so.” “And what, pray, was Witty’s business with this advocate?” “They are going to hang a woman; and Mr. Whitcomb, who to his infinite complexities and many-sidedness as a citizen of the world adds a leaven of the finest humanitarian principles, has undertaken to save the poor creature from a fate so pitiful.” “To hang a woman!” said the lady, drawing in her breath with a sharp sound. “Is it still possible to hang a woman at this time of day?” “Perfectly,” said the young man. “They do it in every Christian country.”