ester Field, and see that Mr. Warrington was comfortably lodged.
"And order dinner," says Mr. Warrington. No, Mr. Draper could not
consent to that. Mr. Warrington must be so obliging as to honour him on
that day. In fact, he had made so bold as to order a collation from the
Cock. Mr. Warrington could not decline an invitation so pressing, and
walked away gaily with his friend, passing under that arch where
the heads were, and taking off his hat to them, much to the lawyer's
astonishment.

"They were gentlemen who died for their king, sir. My dear brother
George and I always said we would salute 'em when we saw 'em," Mr.
Warrington said.

"You'll have a mob at your heels if you do, sir," said the alarmed
lawyer.

"Confound the mob, sir," said Mr. Harry, loftily, but the passers-by,
thinking about their own affairs, did not take any notice of Mr.
Warrington's conduct; and he walked up the thronging Strand, gazing
with delight upon all he saw, remembering, I dare say, for all his
life after, the sights and impressions there presented to him, but
maintaining a discreet reserve; for he did not care to let the lawyer
know how much he was moved, or the public perceive that he was a
stranger. He did not hear much of his companion's talk, though the
latter chattered ceaselessly on the way. Nor was Mr. Draper displeased
by the young Virginian's silent and haughty demeanour. A hundred years
ago a gentleman was a gentleman, and his attorney his very humble
servant.

The chamberlain at the Bedford showed Mr. Warrington to his rooms,
bowing before him with delightful obsequiousness, for Gumbo had already
trumpeted his master's greatness, and Mr. Draper's clerk announced that
the new-comer was a "high fellar." Then, the rooms surveyed, the two
gentlemen went to Leicester Field, Mr. Gumbo strutting behind his
master: and, having looked at the scene of his grandsire's wound, and
poor Lord Castlewood's tragedy, they returned to the Temple to Mr.
Draper's chambers.

Who was that shabby-looking big man Mr. Warrington bowed to as they went
out after dinner for a walk in the gardens? That was Mr. Johnson, an
author, whom he had met at Tunbridge Wells. "Take the advice of a man of
the world, sir," says Mr. Draper, eyeing the shabby man of letters very
superciliously; "the less you have to do with that kind of person, the
better. The business we have into our office about them literary men is
not very pleasant, I can tell you." "Indeed!