At last, without quite knowing how he got there, he sat in a long, low apartment, papered like an attic bedroom, and odorous of tea and cake. The place was crowded with young men and women indifferently well-dressed, who bent over uncomfortably small oblong marble-topped tables. An increasing clatter of crockery filled the air. Waitresses, with pale, vacant faces, dressed in dingy black with white aprons, moved about with difficulty at varying rates of speed, but none of them seemed to betray an interest in Richard. Behind the counter, on which stood great polished urns emitting clouds of steam, were several women whose superior rank in the restaurant was denoted by a black apron, and after five minutes had elapsed Richard observed one of these damsels pointing out himself to a waitress, who approached and listened condescendingly to his order. A thin man, rather more than middle-aged, with a grey beard and slightly red nose, entered and sat down opposite to Richard. Without preface he began, speaking rather fast and with an expressive vivacity rarely met with in the ageing,-- "Well, my young friend, how do you like your new place?" Richard stared at him. "Are you Mr. Aked?" "The same. I suppose Master Jenkins has made you acquainted with all my peculiarities of temper and temperament.--Glass of milk, roll, and two pats of butter--and, I say, my girl, try not to keep me waiting as long as you did yesterday." There was a bright smile on his face, which the waitress unwillingly returned. "Don't you know," he went on, looking at Richard's plate,--"don't you know that tea and ham together are frightfully indigestible?" "I never have indigestion." "No matter. You soon will have if you eat tea and ham together. A young man should guard his digestion like his honour. Sounds funny, doesn't it? But it's right. An impaired digestive apparatus has ruined many a career. It ruined mine. You see before you, sir, what might have been an author of repute, but for a wayward stomach." "You write?" Richard asked, interested at once, but afraid lest Mr. Aked might be cumbrously joking. "I used to." The old man spoke with proud self-consciousness. "Have you written a book?" "Not a book. But I've contributed to all manner of magazines and newspapers." "What magazines?" "Well, let me see--it's so long ago. I've written for 'Cornhill.' I wrote for 'Cornhill' when Thackeray edited it. I spoke to Carlyle once." "You did?" "Yes. Carlyle said to me--Carlyle said to me--Carlyle said--" Mr. Aked's voice dwindled to an inarticulate murmur, and, suddenly ignoring Richard's presence, he pulled a book from his pocket and began to finger the leaves. It was a French novel, "La Vie de Bohème." His face had lost all its mobile expressiveness.