Altogether the day proved so refreshing that Gammon was sorry when its end drew near.
Greenacre was late for his appointment at the stables; he came in a suit of black, imperfectly fitting, and a chimney-pot hat some years old, looking very much like an undertaker's man.

His appearance seemed to prove that he really had attended a funeral, which renewed Gammon's wonder.

As a matter of course they repaired to the nearest eating-house to have a meal together--an eating-house of the old fashion, known also as a coffee-shop, which Gammon greatly preferred to any kind of restaurant.

There, on the narrow seats with high wooden backs, as uncomfortable a sitting as could be desired, with food before him of worse quality and worse cooked than any but English-speaking mortals would endure, he always felt at home, and was pleasantly reminded of the days of his youth, when a supper of eggs and bacon at some such resort rewarded him for a long week's toil and pinching.

Sweet to him were the rancid odours, delightfully familiar the dirty knives, the twisted forks, the battered teaspoons, not unwelcome the day's newspaper, splashed with brown coffee and spots of grease.