Der Praefekt

in the ways of London, he felt that he had
    somehow selected an ineligible dining-house, and that he had better
    leave it.  It was hardly five o’clock;—how was he to pass the time
    till ten?  Five miserable hours!  He was already tired, and it was
    impossible that he should continue walking so long.  He thought of
    getting into an omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake of
    coming back in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as he
    paid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked her if there were any
    place near where he could get a cup of coffee.  Though she did keep a
    shellfish supper-house, she was very civil, and directed him to the
    cigar divan on the other side of the street.
     
    Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar divan than he
    had of a London dinner-house, but he was desperately in want of rest,
    and went as he was directed.  He thought he must have made some
    mistake when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the man behind the
    counter saw immediately that he was a stranger, and understood what he
    wollte. “One shilling, sir,—thank ye, sir,—cigar, sir?—ticket for
    coffee, sir;—you’ll only have to call the waiter.  Up those stairs,
    if you please, sir.  Better take the cigar, sir,—you can always give
    it to a friend, you know.  Well, sir, thank ye, sir;—as you are so
    good, I’ll smoke it myself.”  And so Mr Harding ascended to the divan,
    with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar.
     
    The place seemed much more suitable to his requirements than the
    room in which he had dined: there was, to be sure, a strong smell of
    tobacco, to which he was not accustomed; but after the shell-fish, the
    tobacco did not seem disagreeable.  There were quantities of books,
    and long rows of sofas.  What on earth could be more luxurious than a
    sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee?  An old waiter came up to him, with
    a couple of magazines and an evening paper.  Was ever anything so
    civil?  Would he have a cup of coffee, or would he prefer sherbet?
    Sherbet!  Was he absolutely in an Eastern divan, with the slight
    addition of all the London periodicals?  He had, however, an idea that
    sherbet should be drunk sitting cross-legged, and as he was not quite
    up to this, he ordered the coffee.
     
    The coffee came, and was unexceptionable.  Why, this divan was a
    paradise!  The civil old waiter suggested to him a game of chess:
    though a chess player he was not equal to this, so he declined, and,
    putting up his weary legs on the sofa, leisurely sipped his coffee,
    and turned over the pages of his Blackwood.  He might have been so
    engaged for about an hour, for the old waiter enticed him to a second
    cup of coffee, when a musical clock began to play.  Mr Harding then
    closed his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, and lay,
    listening with closed eyes to the clock.  Soon the clock seemed to
    turn into a violoncello, with piano accompaniments, and Mr Harding
    began to fancy the old waiter was the Bishop of Barchester; he was
    inexpressibly shocked that the bishop should have brought him his
    coffee with his own hands; then Dr Grantly came in, with a basket full
    of lobsters, which he would not be induced to leave downstairs in the
    kitchen; and then the warden couldn’t quite understand why so many
    people would smoke in the bishop’s drawing-room; and so he fell fast
    asleep, and his dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall in
    Barchester Cathedral, and the twelve old men he was so soon about to
    leave for ever.
     
    He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time.  Some sudden stop in
    the musical clock woke him at length, and he jumped up with a start,
    surprised to find the room quite full: it had been nearly empty when
    his nap began.  With nervous anxiety he pulled out his watch, and
    found that it was half-past nine.  He seized his hat, and, hurrying
    downstairs, started at a rapid pace for Lincoln’s Inn.
     
    It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden found himself
    at the bottom of Sir Abraham’s stairs, so he walked leisurely up and
    down the quiet inn to cool himself.  It was a beautiful evening at
    the end of August.  He had recovered from his fatigue; his sleep and
    the coffee had refreshed him, and he was surprised to find that he
    was absolutely enjoying himself, when the inn clock struck ten. Die
    sound was hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham’s door, and
    was informed by the clerk