"Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?" he said to himself. But here came the creak of the waiter's boots, and that observant person reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as he set them on the table.
"A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette."
"Thank you," said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.
"And now, sir," here the waiter coughed into his napkin again, "now—what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make it sherry?"
"Neither," said Barnabas.
"Why, then, we 'ave some rare old burgundy, sir—'ighly esteemed by connysoors and (cough again) other—gentlemen."
"No, thank you."
"On the other 'and—to suit 'umbler tastes, we 'ave,"—here the waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head—"ale, sir, likewise beer, small and otherwise."
"Nothing, thank you," said Barnabas; "and you will observe the door is still where it was."
"Door, sir, yessir—oh, certainly, sir!" said he, and stalked out of the room.