Inside the meeting room of the "Britons" editorial office, the gas lamps cast an amber glow on the oak shelves, while the dark green velvet curtains half-shielded the hustle and bustle of Fleet Street.
On either side of the long table, the pillars of the magazine each had their own hobbies. Dickens, with a cherrywood pipe in his mouth, was sketching the contours of an overindulgent parliament member on the edge of his manuscript with a pencil, clearly working on a satirical political novel.
Meanwhile, Mr. Disraeli, having recently moved into Mrs. Sikes' residence, apparently hadn't been sleeping well. He absentmindedly toyed with a gold-encrusted snuffbox, only reluctantly snapping to attention when his gaze fell upon the magazine's financial report for the quarter.
