Peter looked at me suspiciously. 'He lived at Bolt Court as well,' she said.
'Nowhere between here and there?' I asked. 'No friend's house, for instance, where he often spent the night? Where did that lady live who used to give him nineteen cups of tea at a sitting? Couldn't we pause and refresh ourselves by looking at her portals on the way?'
'Transatlantic impertinence,' cried Miss Corke, leading the way out, 'is more than I can bear!'
'But,' I said, still hanging back, 'about how far———?'
When my dear friend gave vent to the little squeal with which she received this, I knew that her feelings were worked up to a point where it was dangerous to tamper with them, so I submitted to Bolt Court, walking with humility all the way. When we finally arrived I could see no intrinsic difference between this court and the others, except that rather more—recently—current literature had blown up from an adjacent news-stall. For a person who changed his residence so often, Dr. Johnson's domestic tastes must have undergone singularly little alteration.
'He went from here to Westminster Abbey, I think you said,' I remarked, respectfully, to Peter.
'In 1784,' said Peter, who is a stickler for dates.
'And has not moved since!' I added, with some anxiety, just to aggravate Peter, who was duly aggravated.
'Well,' I responded, 'we saw Westminster Abbey, you remember. And I took particular notice of the monument to Dr. Johnson. We needn't go there.'
'It's in St. Paul's!' said Peter, in a manner which wounded me, for if there is an unpleasant thing it is to be disbelieved.