“Candles!” said Arnold.
Mr. Bishopriggs set the “collops” (in the language of England, minced meat) upon the table, lit the candles on the mantle-piece, faced about with the fire of recent toddy flaming in his nose, and waited for further orders, before he went back to his second glass. Anne declined to return to the dinner. Arnold ordered Mr. Bishopriggs to close the shutters, and sat down to dine by himself.
“It looks greasy, and smells greasy,” he said to Anne, turning over the collops with a spoon. “I won’t be ten minutes dining. Will you have some tea?”
Anne declined again.
Arnold tried her once more. “What shall we do to get through the evening?”
“Do what you like,” she answered, resignedly.
Arnold’s mind was suddenly illuminated by an idea.
“I have got it!” he exclaimed. “We’ll kill the time as our cabin-passengers used to kill it at sea.” He looked over his shoulder at Mr. Bishopriggs. “Waiter! bring a pack of cards.”
“What’s that ye’re wantin’?” asked Mr. Bishopriggs, doubting the evidence of his own senses.
“A pack of cards,” repeated Arnold.