("Whose fault was that?" muttered Robert.)
"Can't think how it happened."
("Only because you started too late.")
"I am excessively sorry—glad you didn't think it necessary to wait."
("Confound the puppy—does he think we are an hour eating our soup.")
"Pray don't make any difference for me. I dare say I can make a dinner of what I see. The mutton, no doubt, as good cold as hot."
("Good enough for you, any way.")
"Pray don't send for the soup again! It is not in the least necessary."
"Well, since you are so kind as to say so," said Elizabeth, simply, "I will let you do as you please—I dare say the soup will not be very good now—and it's not pleasant, I know, to have it back! Simson is handing you a chair—pray sit down;" and as she spoke—the waiter, who was no other than the parish clerk, acting for the night in this capacity, thrust a chair against Mr. Musgrove's legs with such zeal, as very nearly upset him, and quite caused him to jog Mrs. Steady's elbow as she was in the act of lifting a glass to her lips, much to the damage of her respectable grey silk gown. When things come to the worst, they must mend—so says the proverb—and the company found it true on this occasion, so far as the disagreeable noise and bustle of his entrance was concerned. But this was not the case with Tom himself—who, really chilled and hungry, sat down to only half a dinner, more than half cold—and whose vanity compelled him to abstain even from what was yet before him, lest he should be supposed guilty of the vulgarity of having an appetite. Had the struggles of his mind been exposed, perhaps, even Emma might have pitied him—or, at least, have admired the heroic constancy with which he sacrificed himself at the shrine of fashionable indifference. Unknown and unnoticed, however, were the efforts of his self-denial, and like modest worth, or unpatronised genius, they found their only reward in the internal satisfaction of his mind. As, however, he was a talker by profession, and always inclined to lead in conversation, their party gained much in liveliness, by the addition of his society. He flattered Mr. Watson—joked with Elizabeth—quizzed Mrs. Steady—and threw admiring glances at Emma, with laudable mirth and perseverance. Mrs. Robinson was soothed—Robert Watson silenced—and Mr. Martin aroused by his jocularity—whilst poor Mrs. Robinson was actually able to finish her dinner in tolerable comfort, so much was her husband's brow cleared from the threatened storm, which had before alarmed her.
With secret weariness, Emma watched for the signal to withdraw from the dinner-table, but Elizabeth was too much entertained to be at all in a hurry to rise, and it was, at length, to Mrs. Robert Watson that her thanks for a release were due.