He looked at his letters, and knowing their outsides, left them for future perusal, and sousing himself into the depths of a many-cushioned easy-chair, proceeded to spell his _Morning Post_--Tattersall's advertisements--'Grosjean's Pale-tots'-- 'Mr.Albert Smith'-- 'Coals, best Stewart Hetton or Lambton's'-- 'Police Intelligence,' and such other light reading as does not require any great effort to connect or comprehend.
Then came his breakfast, for which he had very little appetite, though he relished his coffee, and also an anchovy.

While dawdling over these, he heard sundry wheels grinding about below the window, and the bumping and thumping of boxes, indicative of 'goings away,' for which he couldn't say he felt sorry.

He couldn't even be at the trouble of getting up and going to the window to see who it was that was off, so weary and head-achy was he.

He rolled and lolled in his chair, now taking a sip of coffee, now a bite of anchovy toast, now considering whether he durst venture on an egg, and again having recourse to the _Post_.

At last, having exhausted all the light reading in it, and scanned through the list of hunting appointments, he took up the Swillingford paper to see that they had got his 'meets' right for the next week.