Der Praefekt

prepared and carried with him a note for Sir Abraham
    Haphazard, in which he stated his name, explaining that he was the
    defendant in the case of “The Queen on behalf of the Wool-carders of
    Barchester _v_. Trustees under the will of the late John Hiram,” for
    so was the suit denominated, and begged the illustrious and learned
    gentleman to vouchsafe to him ten minutes’ audience at any hour on the
    next day.  Mr Harding calculated that for that one day he was safe;
    his son-in-law, he had no doubt, would arrive in town by an early
    train, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should have
    escaped from his hotel after breakfast; and could he thus manage to
    see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be done before the
    archdeacon could interfere.
     
    On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his wont, to the
    Chapter Hotel and Coffee House, near St Paul’s.  His visits to London
    of late had not been frequent; but in those happy days when “Harding’s
    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. Er
    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 without a sound; where the two or three guests
    would as soon think of knocking each other down as of speaking; where
    the servants whisper, and the whole household is disturbed if an order
    be given above the voice,—what can be more melancholy than a mutton
    chop and a pint of port in such a place?
     
    Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another omnibus, and
    again returned to the House.  Yes, Sir Abraham was there, and was
    that moment on his legs, fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventh
    clause of the Convent Custody Bill.  Mr Harding’s note had been
    delivered to him; and if Mr Harding would wait some two or three
    hours, Sir Abraham could be asked whether there was any answer.
    The House was not full, and perhaps Mr Harding might get admittance
    into the Strangers’ Gallery, which admission, with the help of five
    shillings, Mr Harding was able to effect.
     
    This bill of Sir Abraham’s had been read a second time and passed