He then journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting his great thoughts, as best he might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged in between a wet old lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his work with his tools in his lap.

In melancholy solitude he discussed his mutton chop and pint of port.

What is there in this world more melancholy than such a dinner?
A dinner, though eaten alone, in a country hotel may be worthy of some energy; the waiter, if you are known, will make much of you; the landlord will make you a bow and perhaps put the fish on the table; if you ring you are attended to, and there is some life about it.

A dinner at a London eating-house is also lively enough, if it have no other attraction.

There is plenty of noise and stir about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle of dishes disperses sadness.