Church Music" was going through the press, he had been often there;
and as the publisher's house was in Paternoster Row, and the printer's
press in Fleet Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been
convenient. It was a quiet, sombre, clerical house, beseeming such
a man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented it. Had he
dared, he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere to throw the
archdeacon further off the scent; but he did not know what violent
steps his son-in-law might take for his recovery if he were not found
at his usual haunt, and he deemed it not prudent to make himself the
object of a hunt through London.

Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth to the
attorney-general's chambers. There he learnt that Sir Abraham was in
Court, and would not probably return that day. He would go direct
from Court to the House; all appointments were, as a rule, made at the
chambers; the clerk could by no means promise an interview for the
next day; was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview was,
he thought, impossible; but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at the
House in the course of the night, where an answer from himself might
possibly be elicited.

To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding Sir
Abraham there. He added a most piteous entreaty that he might be
favoured with an answer that evening, for which he would return. He
then journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting his
great thoughts, as best he might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged in
between a wet old lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his
work with his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he discussed
his mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this world more
melancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten alone, in a
country hotel may be worthy of some energy; the waiter, if you are
known, will make much of you; the landlord will make you a bow and
perhaps put the fish on the table; if you ring you are attended to,
and there is some life about it. A dinner at a London eating-house is
also lively enough, if it have no other attraction. There is plenty
of noise and stir about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle
of dishes disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old,
respectable, sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise
but the old waiter's creaking shoes; where one plate slowly goes and
another slowly comes w