At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the conference.
"My eye, miss," he said, in a low voice, "he's a Tartar!"
"Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I.
Mr. Guppy sat down at the table, and began nervously sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-fork; still looking at me (as I felt quite sure, without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The sharpening lasted so long, that at last I felt a kind of obligation on me to raise my eyes, in order that I might break the spell under which he seemed to labor, of not being able to leave off.
He immediately looked at the dish, and began to carve.
"What will you take yourself, miss? You'll take a morsel of something?"
"No, thank you," said I.
"Shan't I give you a piece of any thing at all, miss?" said Mr. Guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.
"Nothing, thank you," said I. "I have only waited to see that you have every thing you want. Is there any thing I can order for you?"
"No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure. I've every thing I can require to make me comfortable—at least I—not comfortable—I'm never that:" he drank off two more glasses of wine, one after another.