I noticed, I remember, as he paused, looking at me with his handsome head a little thrown back, and his glass raised in his hand, that, though the freshness of the sea-wind was on his face, and it was ruddy, there were traces in it, made since I last saw it, as if he had applied himself to some habitual strain of the fervent energy which, when roused, was so passionately roused within him. I had it in my thoughts to remonstrate with him upon his desperate way of pursuing any fancy that he took⁠—such as this buffeting of rough seas, and braving of hard weather, for example⁠—when my mind glanced off to the immediate subject of our conversation again, and pursued that instead.

“I tell you what, Steerforth,” said I, “if your high spirits will listen to me⁠—”

“They are potent spirits, and will do whatever you like,” he answered, moving from the table to the fireside again.