Mrs. Boffin’s Fashion, as a less inexorable deity than the idol usually worshipped under that name, did not forbid her mixing for her literary guest, or asking if he found the result to his liking. On his returning a gracious answer and taking his place at the literary settle, Mr. Boffin began to compose himself as a listener, at the opposite settle, with exultant eyes.

“Sorry to deprive you of a pipe, Wegg,” he said, filling his own, “but you can’t do both together. Oh! and another thing I forgot to name! When you come in here of an evening, and look round you, and notice anything on a shelf that happens to catch your fancy, mention it.”

Wegg, who had been going to put on his spectacles, immediately laid them down, with the sprightly observation:

“You read my thoughts, sir. Do my eyes deceive me, or is that object up there a⁠—a pie? It can’t be a pie.”