"You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be allowed to say that you were wrong there."
"I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr. Toogood; but permit me to explain. I—"
"It's no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a lawyer for your defence,—an attorney who will put the case into the hands of counsel."
"But that I cannot do, Mr. Toogood."
"You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends should do it for you. If you don't do it, everybody will say you're mad. There isn't a single solicitor you could find within half a mile of you at this moment who wouldn't give you the same advice,—not a single man, either, who has got a head on his shoulders worth a turnip."
When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would be laid to his charge if he did not do as he was bid, his face became very black, and assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn when he was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs. Proudie. "It may be so," he said. "It may be as you say, Mr. Toogood. But these neighbours of yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with so much certainty, would hardly recommend me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying."
"Who thinks about paying under such circumstances as these?"
"I do, Mr. Toogood."
"The wretchedest costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister in a wig and gown to give him his chance of escape."
"But I am not a costermonger, Mr. Toogood,—though more wretched perhaps than any costermonger now in existence. It is my lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not to be exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty is seldom subject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for which I cannot pay,—and I will not do it."