"
This I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It
was a nice little dinner,--seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor's
Feast,--and it acquired additional relish from being eaten under
those independent circumstances, with no old people by, and with
London all around us. This again was heightened by a certain gypsy
character that set the banquet off; for while the table was, as Mr.
Pumblechook might have said, the lap of luxury,--being entirely
furnished forth from the coffee-house,--the circumjacent region of
sitting-room was of a comparatively pastureless and shifty
character; imposing on the waiter the wandering habits of putting
the covers on the floor (where he fell over them), the melted
butter in the arm-chair, the bread on the bookshelves, the cheese in
the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into my bed in the next room,--
where I found much of its parsley and butter in a state of
congelation when I retired for the night. All this made the feast
delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch me, my
pleasure was without alloy.
We had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of
his promise to tell me about Miss Havisham.
"True," he replied. "I'll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the
topic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to
put the knife in the mouth,--for fear of accidents,--and that while
the fork is reserved for that use, it is not put further in than
necessary.
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