“I hate,” said Eugene, putting his legs up on the opposite seat, “I hate my profession.”

“Shall I incommode you, if I put mine up too?” returned Mortimer. “Thank you. I hate mine.”

“It was forced upon me,” said the gloomy Eugene, “because it was understood that we wanted a barrister in the family. We have got a precious one.”

“It was forced upon me,” said Mortimer, “because it was understood that we wanted a solicitor in the family. And we have got a precious one.”

“There are four of us, with our names painted on a doorpost in right of one black hole called a set of chambers,” said Eugene; “and each of us has the fourth of a clerk⁠—Cassim Baba, in the robber’s cave⁠—and Cassim is the only respectable member of the party.”