nd one regards one as having failed,
and as being, therefore, fit for the shelf. Such were Sir Thomas
Underwood's feelings as he sat alone in his chambers during those
days in which the new administration was formed,--in which days he
was neither consulted nor visited, nor communicated with either by
message or by letter. But all this,--this formation of a Ministry,
in which the late Solicitor-General was not invited to take a
part,--occurred seven years before the commencement of our story.

During those years in which our lawyer sat in Parliament as Mr.
Underwood,--at which time he was working hard also as a Chancery
barrister, and was, perhaps, nearer to his fellow-men than he had
ever been before, or was ever destined to be afterwards,--he resided,
as regarded himself almost nominally, at a small but pretty villa,
which he had taken for his wife's sake at Fulham. It was close upon
the river, and had well-arranged, though not extensive, shrubbery
walks, and a little lawn, and a tiny conservatory, and a charming
opening down to the Thames. Mrs. Underwood had found herself unable
to live in Half-moon Street; and Mr. Underwood, not unwillingly,
had removed his household gods to this retreat. At that time his
household gods consisted of a wife and two daughters;--but the wife
had died before the time came at which she could have taken on
herself the name of Lady Underwood. The villa at Fulham was still
kept, and there lived the two girls, and there also Sir Thomas, had
he been interrogated on the subject, would have declared that he also
was domiciled. But if a man lives at the place in which he most often
sleeps, Sir Thomas in truth lived at his chambers at Southampton
Buildings. When he moved those household gods of his to the villa, it
was necessary, because of his duties in Parliament, that he should
have some place in town wherein he might lay his head, and therefore,
I fear not unwillingly, he took to laying his head very frequently in
the little bedroom which was attached to his chambers.

It is not necessary that we should go back to any feelings which
might have operated upon him during his wife's lifetime, or during
the period of his parliamentary career. His wife was now dead, and
he no longer held a seat in Parliament. He had, indeed, all but
abandoned his practice at the Bar, never putting himself forward for
the ordinary business of a Chancery barrister. But, nevertheless,
he spent the largest half of his