Provided with a latch-key, Mr. Hayfield admitted his master’s son to the inner mysteries of the villa, where a lady with a very reedy voice was singing “Far away,” in the front parlour, while a family conversation which almost drowned her melody was going on in the back parlour. Mr. Hayfield’s bedroom candlestick and matches were ready for him on a Swiss bracket near his door, and his lamp was ready on a table in his sitting-room, where every object was disposed with a studied precision which marked at once the confirmed bachelor and the model lodger. “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” “The Christian Year,” “Whitaker’s Almanack,” and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” were placed with mathematical regularity upon the walnut loo table, surrounding a centrepiece of wax flowers in an alabaster vase under a glass shade. A smaller table of the nature described as Pembroke was placed nearer the fire, and on this appeared Mr. Hayfield’s supper-tray, set forth with a plate of cold roast beef, a glass saucer of Oriental pickle, cheese, and accompaniments, flanked by an Imperial pint of Guinness’. A small fire burned brightly in the grate, whose dimensions had been reduced by a careful adjustment of fire-bricks. “Sit down, my dear Mr. Harrington, you’ll find that chair very comfortable. I’ll go and get you the money. My cash-box is in the next room. Can I tempt you to join me in a plate of cold ribs? There’s plenty more where that came from. Mrs. Potter has a fine wing rib every Sunday, from year’s end to year’s end. I generally take my dinner with her and her family, but I sup alone. A little society goes a long way with a man of my age. I like my _Lloyd_ and my _News of the World_ after supper.” He went into his bedroom, which was approached by folding doors, and came back again in two minutes with a couple of crisp notes, the savings of half a year, savings which meant a good deal of self-denial in a man who, in his own words, wished to live like a gentleman. The old clerk prided himself upon his good broadcloth, clean linen, and respectable lodgings; and it was felt in the town that so respectable a servant enhanced even the respectability of Dalbrook and Son. Harrington took the bank-notes with many thanks, and insisted upon writing a note of hand—albeit the old clerk reminded him that Sunday was a _dies non_—at the desk where Hayfield wrote his letters and did any copying work he cared to do after office hours. He stayed while the old man ate his temperate meal, but would not be persuaded to share it. Indeed, his lips felt hot and dry, and it seemed to him as if he should never want to eat again; but he gladly accepted a tumbler of the refreshing Guinness’ upon the repeated assurance that there was plenty more where that came from. * * * * *