' The clerk looked sleepy, but his employer had as brisk an air as
if he were just beginning the day; although he had been working without
intermission since nine o'clock that evening, and had done a long day's
work before dinner. He was walking up and down the spacious unluxurious
room, half office, half library, smoking a cigar. Upon a large table in
the centre of the room stood two powerful reading lamps with green
shades, illuminating a chaotic mass of books and pamphlets, heaped and
scattered all over the table, save just on that spot between the two
lamps, which accommodated Mr. Fitzpatrick's blotting pad and inkpot, a
pewter inkpot which held about a pint.
'How d'ye do, Hartfield? Glad you've looked me up at last,' said the
Irishman, as if a midnight call were the most natural thing in the
world. 'Just come from the House?'
'No; I've just come from Westmoreland. I thought I should find you among
those everlasting books of yours, late as it is. Can I have a few words
alone with you?'
'Certainly. Morgan, you can go away for a bit.
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