I was three-and-twenty years of age.

Not another word had I heard to enlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third birthday was a week gone. We had left Barnard's Inn more than a year, and lived in the Temple. Our chambers were in Garden-court, down by the river.

Mr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original relations, though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my inability to settle to anything, — which I hope arose out of the restless and incomplete tenure on which I held my means, — I had a taste for reading, and read regularly so many hours a day.

That matter of Herbert's was still progressing, and everything with me was as I have brought it down to the close of the last preceding chapter.