And now I am going out to get some dinner; I shall be back in half an hour." The press and bustle of the day's work was over at the tavern to which Gilbert bent his steps.

Dinners and diners seemed to be done with for one more day; and there were only a couple of drowsy-looking waiters folding table-cloths and putting away cruet-stands and other paraphernalia in long narrow closets cut in the papered walls, and invisible by day.
One of these functionaries grew brisk again, with a wan factitious briskness, at sight of Gilbert, made haste to redecorate one of the tables, and in bland insinuating tones suggested a dinner of six courses or so, as likely to be agreeable to a lonely and belated diner; well aware in the depths of his inner consciousness that the six courses would be all more or less warmings-up of viands that had figured in the day's bill of fare.
"Bring me a chop or a steak, and a pint of dry sherry," Gilbert said wearily.
"Have a slice of turbot and lobster-sauce, sir--the turbot are uncommon fine to-day; and a briled fowl and mushrooms.

It will be ready in five minutes." "You may bring me the fowl, if you like: I won't wait for fish.

I'm in a hurry." The attendant gave a faint sigh, and communicated the order for the fowl and mushrooms through a speaking-tube.

It was the business of his life to beguile his master's customers into over-eating themselves, and to set his face against chops and steaks; but he felt that this particular customer was proof against his blandishments.