e to town, was entered a member
of the Upper Temple, and was reading hard for the bar.

Lamb Court, Temple:--where was it? Major Pendennis remembered that
some ladies of fashion used to talk of dining with Mr. Ayliffe, the
barrister, who was "in society," and who lived there in the King's
Bench, of which prison there was probably a branch in the Temple, and
Ayliffe was very likely an officer. Mr. Deuceace, Lord Crabs's son, had
also lived there, he recollected. He despatched Morgan to find out where
Lamb Court was, and to report upon the lodging selected by Mr. Arthur.
That alert messenger had little difficulty in discovering Mr. Pen's
abode. Discreet Morgan had in his time traced people far more difficult
to find than Arthur.

"What sort of a place is it, Morgan?" asked the Major, out of the
bed-curtains in Bury Street the next morning, as the valet was arranging
his toilette in the deep yellow London fog.

"I should say rayther a shy place," said Mr. Morgan. "The lawyers lives
there, and has their names on the doors. Mr. Harthur lives three pair
high, sir. Mr. Warrington lives there too, sir."

"Suffolk Warringtons! I shouldn't wonder: a good family," thought the
Major. "The cadets of many of our good families follow the robe as a
profession. Comfortable rooms, eh?"

"Honly saw the outside of the door, sir, with Mr. Warrington's name and
Mr. Arthur's painted up, and a piece of paper with 'Back at 6;' but I
couldn't see no servant, sir."

"Economical at any rate," said the Major.

"Very, sir. Three pair, sir. Nasty black staircase as ever I see. Wonder
how a gentleman can live in such a place."

"Pray, who taught you where gentlemen should or should not live, Morgan?
Mr. Arthur, sir, is going to study for the bar, sir," the Major said
with much dignity; and closed the conversation and began to array
himself in the yellow fog.

"Boys will be boys," the mollified uncle thought to himself. "He has
written to me a devilish good letter. Colchicum says he has had him to
dine, and thinks him a gentlemanlike lad. His mother is one of the best
creatures in the world. If he has sown his wild oats, and will stick
to his business, he may do well yet. Think of Charley Mirabel, the old
fool, marrying that flame of his! that Fotheringay! He doesn't like to
come here until I give him leave, and puts it in a very manly nice way.
I was deuced angry with him, after his Oxbridge escapades--and showed
it too when he was here bef