We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all busily engaged, in our several departments, endeavouring to bring the last batch of slices to a state of perfection that should crown the feast, when I was aware of a strange presence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the staid Littimer, standing hat in hand before me.
“What’s the matter?” I involuntarily asked.
“I beg your pardon, sir, I was directed to come in. Is my master not here, sir?”
“No.”
“Have you not seen him, sir?”
“No; don’t you come from him?”
“Not immediately so, sir.”
“Did he tell you you would find him here?”
“Not exactly so, sir. But I should think he might be here tomorrow, as he has not been here today.”
“Is he coming up from Oxford?”
“I beg, sir,” he returned respectfully, “that you will be seated, and allow me to do this.” With which he took the fork from my unresisting hand, and bent over the gridiron, as if his whole attention were concentrated on it.
We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, by the appearance of Steerforth himself, but we became in a moment the