"Wit and looks may be helpful, but all these are utterly useless unless you have what I may call the magic key."
"And what is that?"
"Notoriety, sir."
"For what?"
"For anything that will serve to lift you out of the ruck—to set you above the throng,—you must be one apart—an original."
"Originality is divine!" said Barnabas.
"More or less, sir," added Peterby, "for it is very easily achieved. Lord Alvanly managed it with apricot tarts; Lord Petersham with snuff-boxes; Mr. Mackinnon by his agility in climbing round drawing-rooms on the furniture; Jockey of Norfolk by consuming a vast number of beef-steaks, one after the other; Sir George Cassilis, who was neither rich nor handsome nor witty, by being insolent; Sir John Lade by dressing like a stagecoach-man, and driving like the devil; Sir George Skeffington by inventing a new color and writing bad plays; and I could name you many others beside—"
"Why then, Peterby—what of Sir Mortimer Carnaby?"
"He managed it by going into the ring with Jack Fearby, the 'Young Ruffian,' and beating him in twenty-odd rounds for one thing, and winning a cross-country race—"
"Ha!" exclaimed Barnabas, "a race!" and so he fell to staring up at the ceiling again.