There he stopped so long, to find the rest of his sentence, that Mr. Grewgious rendered his difficulty a thousand times the greater by unexpectedly striking in with:
“No to be sure; he may not!”
After that, they all sat silent; the silence of Mr. Bazzard being occasioned by slumber.
“His responsibility is very great, though,” said Mr. Grewgious at length, with his eyes on the fire.
Edwin nodded assent, with his eyes on the fire.
“And let him be sure that he trifles with no one,” said Mr. Grewgious; “neither with himself, nor with any other.”
Edwin bit his lip again, and still sat looking at the fire.
“He must not make a plaything of a treasure. Woe betide him if he does! Let him take that well to heart,” said Mr. Grewgious.
Though he said these things in short sentences, much as the supposititious charity boy just now referred to might have repeated a verse or two from the Book of Proverbs, there was something dreamy (for so literal a man) in the way in which he now shook his right forefinger at the live coals in the grate, and again fell silent.
But not for long. As he sat upright and stiff in his chair, he suddenly rapped his knees, like the carved image of some queer Joss or other coming out of its reverie, and said: “We must finish this bottle, Mr. Edwin. Let me help you. I’ll help Bazzard too, though he is asleep. He mightn’t like it else.”