Edwin took the easy-chair in the corner; and the fog he had brought in with him, and the fog he took off with his greatcoat and neck-shawl, was speedily licked up by the eager fire.
“I look,” said Edwin, smiling, “as if I had come to stop.”
“—By the by,” cried Mr. Grewgious; “excuse my interrupting you; do stop. The fog may clear in an hour or two. We can have dinner in from just across Holborn. You had better take your Cayenne pepper here than outside; pray stop and dine.”
“You are very kind,” said Edwin, glancing about him as though attracted by the notion of a new and relishing sort of gipsy-party.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Grewgious; “ you are very kind to join issue with a bachelor in chambers, and take potluck. And I’ll ask,” said Mr. Grewgious, dropping his voice, and speaking with a twinkling eye, as if inspired with a bright thought: “I’ll ask Bazzard. He mightn’t like it else.—Bazzard!”
Bazzard reappeared.
“Dine presently with Mr. Drood and me.”
“If I am ordered to dine, of course I will, sir,” was the gloomy answer.
“Save the man!” cried Mr. Grewgious. “You’re not ordered; you’re invited.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Bazzard; “in that case I don’t care if I do.”