rds into the road and looking up at the
window. 'He hasn't put out his candles yet, I see.'

Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had
changed his mind--forgotten something--and must return to London,
mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets, father and
son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

Chapter 15

At noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering over his breakfast
in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the
Maypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an
infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the
disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.

In the broad old-fashioned window-seat--as capacious as many modern
sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee--in the
broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged,
very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He had
exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for
slippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged
to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and
tiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the
discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of
perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.

The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly
favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy
influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative
of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence
peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when
it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.

There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day,
for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a
drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens;
those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their
footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing
from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, 'Who enters here leaves
noise behind.' There is still the plash of falling water in fair
Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted
students may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of
sunlight patching the shade of the tal