The social festivities were continued till long past midnight, when several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter.
Mr.Dempster had done as much justice to the punch as any of the party; and his friend Boots, though aware that the lawyer could 'carry his liquor like Old Nick'.

with whose social demeanour Boots seemed to be particularly well acquainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well to see so good a customer in safety to his own door, and walked quietly behind his elbow out of the inn-yard.

Dempster, however, soon became aware of him, stopped short, and, turning slowly round upon him, recognized the well-known drab waistcoat sleeves, conspicuous enough in the starlight.
'You twopenny scoundrel! What do you mean by dogging a professional man's footsteps in this way?
I'll break every bone in your skin if you attempt to track me, like a beastly cur sniffing at one's pocket.

Do you think a gentleman will make his way home any the better for having the scent of your blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils ?' Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humour, thinking the lawyer's 'rum talk' was doubtless part and parcel of his professional ability; and Mr.Dempster pursued his slow way alone.
His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the prettiest outskirt of the town--the church, the parsonage, and a long stretch of green fields.

It was an old-fashioned house, with an overhanging upper storey; outside, it had a face of rough stucco, and casement windows with green frames and shutters; inside, it was full of long passages, and rooms with low ceilings.