“I’m afraid most of the other houses with memories of him have been pulled down, but before we leave Fleet Street let us go into the church where Sunday after Sunday he worshipped. You know St. Clement Danes? Here it is, standing in the middle of the road near to the Temple—one of the seventeenth-century churches built after the Fire.”
They entered, and Betty followed her Godmother up into the gallery where a tablet on a certain pew near the pulpit, marked Dr. Johnson’s seat.
“It’s interesting to know just where he sat,” Betty said, as they left the church. “Is the next place we’re going to, hidden away like Gough Square, Godmother?”
“Far from it. I’m going to take you now to the Adelphi, to which business people who have offices there, go every day.”
“The Adelphi? That’s a turning out of the Strand, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Have you ever asked what the name means?”
Betty shook her head.
“Does it sound to you like an English name?”
“Adelphi,” Betty repeated. “No, it doesn’t. What language is it?”
“Greek. It’s the Greek word for brothers.”