not dine in the abbey: so he left
his sanctuary not willingly, and betook himself to the neighbourhood
of the Strand to look for food.

His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church, that
they were dazed when he got out into the full light of day, and he
felt confused and ashamed of himself, as though people were staring at
him. He hurried along, still in dread of the archdeacon, till he came
to Charing Cross, and then remembered that in one of his passages
through the Strand he had seen the words "Chops and Steaks" on a
placard in a shop window. He remembered the shop distinctly; it was
next door to a trunk-seller's, and there was a cigar shop on the other
side. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to him hitherto
was the only known mode of dining in London at his own expense; and,
therefore, he would get a steak at the shop in the Strand. Archdeacon
Grantly would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner.

He found the house easily,--just as he had observed it, between the
trunks and the cigars. He was rather daunted by the huge quantity
of fish which he saw in the window. There were barrels of oysters,
hecatombs of lobsters, a few tremendous-looking crabs, and a tub full
of pickled salmon; not, however, being aware of any connection between
shell-fish and iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternly
woman, who was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir,
whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato.

The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered in the affirmative,
and a slipshod girl ushered him into a long back room, filled with
boxes for the accommodation of parties, in one of which he took his
seat. In a more miserably forlorn place he could not have found
himself: the room smelt of fish, and sawdust, and stale tobacco smoke,
with a slight taint of escaped gas; everything was rough and dirty,
and disreputable; the cloth which they put before him was abominable;
the knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and filthy; and
everything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort, however:
he was quite alone; there was no one there to look on his dismay; nor
was it probable that anyone would come to do so. It was a London
supper-house. About one o'clock at night the place would be lively
enough, but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it had
been in the abbey.

In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her evening