We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the coffee room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.

“Well now,” said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, “what would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!”

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the humour for a fowl.

“Ain’t you?” said the waiter. “Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!”

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.