CHAPTER XIX.
THE WARDEN RESIGNS The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre affair it was,--very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead Episcopi.
There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch long, served up under a huge old plated cover; there were four three-cornered bits of dry toast, and four square bits of buttered toast; there was a loaf of bread, and some oily-looking butter; and on the sideboard there were the remains of a cold shoulder of mutton.

The archdeacon, however, had not come up from his rectory to St Paul's Churchyard to enjoy himself, and therefore nothing was said of the scanty fare.
The guests were as sorry as the viands;--hardly anything was said over the breakfast-table.

The archdeacon munched his toast in ominous silence, turning over bitter thoughts in his deep mind.

The warden tried to talk to his daughter, and she tried to answer him; but they both failed.

There were no feelings at present in common between them.