He
had a few literary acquaintances that he had made at the
Antiquarian Society, of which he was a distinguished member; a
vice-president of that body had introduced him to the
Athenaeum. It was the first and only club that Hatton had
ever belonged to, and he delighted in it. He liked splendour
and the light and bustle of a great establishment. They saved
him from that melancholy which after a day of action is the
doom of energetic celibacy. A luxurious dinner without
trouble, suited him after his exhaustion; sipping his claret,
he revolved his plans. Above all, he revelled in the
magnificent library, and perhaps was never happier, than when
after a stimulating repast he adjourned up stairs, and buried
himself in an easy chair with Dugdale or Selden, or an erudite
treatise on forfeiture or abeyance.
To-day however Hatton was not in this mood. He came in
exhausted and excited; eat rapidly and rather ravenously;
despatched a pint of champagne; and then called for a bottle
of Lafitte. His table cleared; a devilled biscuit placed
before him, a cool bottle and a fresh glass, he indulged in
that reverie, which the tumult of his feelings and the
physical requirements of existence had hitherto combined to
prevent.
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