“I take it, without having the gift of prophecy, that you have done me the favour of looking in to mention that you are going down yonder—where I can tell you, you are expected—and to offer to execute any little commission from me to my charming ward, and perhaps to sharpen me up a bit in any proceedings? Eh, Mr. Edwin?”
“I called, sir, before going down, as an act of attention.”
“Of attention!” said Mr. Grewgious. “Ah! of course, not of impatience?”
“Impatience, sir?”
Mr. Grewgious had meant to be arch—not that he in the remotest degree expressed that meaning—and had brought himself into scarcely supportable proximity with the fire, as if to burn the fullest effect of his archness into himself, as other subtle impressions are burnt into hard metals. But his archness suddenly flying before the composed face and manner of his visitor, and only the fire remaining, he started and rubbed himself.
“I have lately been down yonder,” said Mr. Grewgious, rearranging his skirts; “and that was what I referred to, when I said I could tell you you are expected.”
“Indeed, sir! Yes; I knew that Pussy was looking out for me.”
“Do you keep a cat down there?” asked Mr. Grewgious.
Edwin coloured a little as he explained: “I call Rosa Pussy.”
“O, really,” said Mr. Grewgious, smoothing down his head; “that’s very affable.”