In Mr. Tulkinghorn’s Chambers

           FromtheverdantundulationsandthespreadingoaksoftheDedlockproperty,Mr.TulkinghorntransfershimselftothestaleheatanddustofLondon.Hismannerofcomingandgoingbetweenthetwoplacesisoneofhisimpenetrabilities.HewalksintoChesneyWoldasifitwerenextdoortohischambersandreturnstohischambersasifhehadneverbeenoutofLincoln’sInnFields.Heneitherchangeshisdressbeforethejourneynortalksofitafterwards.Hemeltedoutofhisturret-roomthismorning,justasnow,inthelatetwilight,hemeltsintohisownsquare.LikeadingyLondonbirdamongthebirdsatroostinthesepleasantfields,wherethesheepareallmadeintoparchment,thegoatsintowigs,andthepastureintochaff,thelawyer,smoke-driedandfaded,dwellingamongmankindbutnotconsortingwiththem,agedwithoutexperienceofgenialyouth,andsolongusedtomakehiscrampednestinholesandcornersofhumannaturethathehasforgottenitsbroaderandbetterrange,comessaunteringhome.Intheovenmadebythehotpavementsandhotbuildings,hehasbakedhimselfdryerthanusual;andhehasinhisthirstymindhismellowedport-winehalfacenturyold.ThelamplighterisskippingupanddownhisladderonMr.Tulkinghorn’ssideoftheFieldswhenthathigh-priestofnoblemysteriesarrivesathisowndullcourt-yard.Heascendsthedoor-stepsandisglidingintotheduskyhallwhenheencounters,onthetopstep,abowingandpropitiatorylittleman."IsthatSnagsby?""Yes,sir.Ihopeyouarewell,sir.Iwasjustgivingyouup,sir,andgoinghome.