The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden into Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn.

It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts.

But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still remain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--as would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less.

Here, among his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to death.

Here he is to-day, quiet at his table.