But the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had proved almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, and at the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him.  He read it over slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, and lay down on his bed to consider it.  At that moment it struck him that he had better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days.  He gathered himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent thirty shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the end of the month.  He must reduce his expenditure; but how?  Impossible to find a room where he could live more cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is not easy to dine in London on less than ninepence.  Only the poor can live cheaply.  He pressed his hands to his face.  His head seemed like splitting, and his monetary difficulty, united with his literary difficulties, produced a momentary insanity.  Work that morning was impossible, so he went out to study the eating-houses of the neighbourhood.  He must find one where he could dine for sixpence.  Or he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take it home with him in a paper bag; but that would seem an almost intolerable imprisonment in his little room.  He could go to a public-house and dine off a sausage and potato.  But at that moment his attention was caught by black letters on a dun, yellowish ground:  ‘Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms.’  Not having breakfasted, he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll.

It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of grey-blue paint.  Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa.  The seats were like those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some omnibuses.  Each was made to hold two persons, and the table between them was large enough for four plates and four pairs of hands.  A few hollow-chested men, the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in the corners.  They had been hunted through the night by the policeman, and had come in for something hot.  Hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out of shirtless sleeves.  One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how slight had become the line that divided him from the outcast.  A serving-maid collected the plates, knives and forks, when the customers left, and carried them back to the great zinc counter.

Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and took the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the customer to pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table at which he chose to eat.  Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but there was a beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a penny bread.  So by dining at Lockhart’s he would be able to cut down his daily expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish