CHAPTER VII.
“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow,
and I like thy humour extremely.”—FIELDING.
The rumbling and jolting vehicle which conveyed Clarence to the metropolis stopped at the door of a tavern in Holborn. Linden was ushered into a close coffee-room and presented with a bill of fare. While he was deliberating between the respective merits of mutton chops and beefsteaks, a man with a brown coat, brown breeches, and a brown wig, walked into the room; he cast a curious glance at Clarence and then turned to the waiter.
“A pair of slippers!”
“Yes, sir,” and the waiter disappeared.
“I suppose,” said the brown gentleman to Clarence, “I suppose, sir, you are the gentleman just come to town?”
“You are right, sir,” said Clarence.
“Very well, very well indeed,” resumed the stranger, musingly. “I took the liberty of looking at your boxes in the passage; I knew a lady, sir, a relation of yours, I think.”
“Sir!” exclaimed Linden, colouring violently.