When he had friends to dinner in his rooms the dinner was always
brought from the hall; he ordered it himself in the large spacious
kitchen, which he duly admired, and prying about amid the various
meats, he chose with care, and when told that what he desired could
not be obtained that day, he continued his search notwithstanding. He
related that on one occasion he discovered a greengage pie, after
many assurances that there was no such thing in the kitchen. If he
was with a friend he laid his hand on his shoulder, and pointing out
an inscription, he said, "Now one thing I notice about the Temple is
that never is an occasion missed of putting up an inscription; and
note the legal character of the inscriptions, how carefully it is
explained, that, for instance, the cloisters, although they are for
the use of the Inner as well as the Middle Temple, yet it was the
Middle Temple that paid to have them put up, and therefore owns the
property." L'Estrange always spoke of the gardens as "our gardens,"
of the church as "our church." He was an authority on all that
related to the Temple, and he delighted in a friend in whom he might
confide; and to walk about the courts with Hall or Sands, stopping
now and then to note some curious piece of sculpture or date, and
forthwith to relate an anecdote that brought back some of the
fragrance and colour of old time, and to tell how he intended to work
such curious facts into the book he was writing on the Temple, was
the essence and the soul of this dreamy man's little life.

Saturday night is the night of dalliance in the Temple, and not
unfrequently on Sunday morning, leaving a lady love, L'Estrange would
go to church--top hat, umbrella, and prayer-book--and having a sense
of humour, he was amused by the incongruity.

"I have left the accursed thing behind me," he once said to Mr.
Collier, and by such facetiousness had seriously annoyed the immense
and most staid Mr. Collier.

A gaunt, hollow-eyed man was he, worn to a thread by diabetes; and to
keep the disease in check, strictly dieted. His appearance was so
suggestive of illness, that whenever he was present the conversation
always turned on what he might eat and what he must refrain from
touching. A large, gray-skinned man, handsome somewhat like a figure
of Melancholy carved out of limestone. Since he had left Oxford,
where he had taken a double first, he had failed--at the bar, in
literature, and in love. It was said that he h