Mr. Utterson the lawyer
        was a man
               of a rugged countenance
         that was never
              lighted by a smile;
        cold,
           scanty and embarrassed in discourse;
        backward in sentiment;
           lean,
           long,
         dusty,
           dreary and yet somehow lovable.

    At friendly meetings,
           and when the wine
            was to his taste,
         something eminently human beaconed
               from his eye;
        something indeed
              which never
                  found its way
                       into his talk,
           but which spoke not
              only in these silent symbols
                   of the after-dinner face,
         but more
              often and loudly
                   in the acts
                       of his life.

    He was austere with himself;
        drank gin
             when he was alone,
           to mortify a taste
               for vintages;
        and though
             he enjoyed the theater,
           had not
              crossed the doors of one
                   for twenty years.

    But he
        had an approved tolerance
               for others;
        sometimes wondering,
           almost with envy,
         at the high pressure
               of spirits
              involved in their misdeeds;
        and in any extremity
              inclined to help
             rather than to reprove.

    "I incline to Cain's heresy,"
          he used to say quaintly:
             "I let my brother
                  go to the devil
                       in his own way."

    In this character,
           it was frequently his fortune
              to be
                   the last reputable acquaintance
                 and the last good influence
                   in the
                  lives of downgoing men.

    And to such as these,
           so long as
             they came about his chambers,
         he never
              marked a shade of change
                   in his demeanour.

    No doubt the feat
        was easy to Mr. Utterson;
           for he
            was undemonstrative at the best,
           and even his friendship seemed
              to be
                  founded in
                       a similar catholicity of good-nature.

    It is the mark
           of a modest man
          to accept
               his friendly circle ready-made
             from the hands of opportunity;
        and that
            was the lawyer's way.

    His friends
        were those
               of his own blood
              or those whom
         he had known the longest;
        his affections,
           like ivy,
         were the growth of time,
           they implied no aptness
               in the object.

    Hence,
           no doubt the bond
             that united him
                   to Mr. Richard Enfield,
         his distant kinsman,
           the well-known man about town.

    It was a nut
          to crack for many,
           what these two
            could see in each other,
         or what subject
             they could find in common.

    It was reported by those
         who encountered them
               in their Sunday walks,
           that they said nothing,
         looked singularly dull
            and would
                  hail with obvious relief
                       the appearance
                     of a friend.

    For all that,
           the two men
              put the greatest store
                   by these excursions,
         counted them
               the chief jewel of
             each week,
           and not only
              set aside occasions of pleasure,
         but even
              resisted the calls of business,
           that they
            might enjoy them uninterrupted.

    It chanced
           on one of these rambles
         that their way
              led them
                   down a by-street
                    in a busy quarter
                           of London.

    The street was small and
         what is called quiet,
           but it
            drove a thriving
                   trade on the weekdays.

    The inhabitants
        were all doing well,
           it seemed
               and all emulously hoping
              to do better still,
         and laying
               out the surplus
                   of their grains
                 in coquetry;
        so that the shop fronts
            stood along
             that thoroughfare
                   with an air of invitation,
           like rows of smiling saleswomen.

    Even on Sunday,
           when it
              veiled its more florid charms
                   and lay
                     comparatively
                        empty of passage,
         the street
              shone out
                   in contrast
                       to its dingy neighbourhood,
           like a fire
               in a forest;
        and with its freshly
              painted shutters,
           well-polished brasses,
         and general cleanliness
               and gaiety of note,
           instantly caught and
              pleased the eye
                   of the passenger.

    Two doors from one corner,
           on the left hand
              going east the line
            was broken