The reflection that Mr. Tartar produced in the Admiral’s Cabin by merely touching the spring knob of a locker and the handle of a drawer, was a dazzling enchanted repast. Wonderful macaroons, glittering liqueurs, magically-preserved tropical spices, and jellies of celestial tropical fruits, displayed themselves profusely at an instant’s notice. But Mr. Tartar could not make time stand still; and time, with his hard-hearted fleetness, strode on so fast, that Rosa was obliged to come down from the beanstalk country to earth and her guardian’s chambers.
“And now, my dear,” said Mr. Grewgious, “what is to be done next? To put the same thought in another form; what is to be done with you?”
Rosa could only look apologetically sensible of being very much in her own way, and in everybody else’s. Some passing idea of living, fireproof, up a good many stairs in Furnival’s Inn for the rest of her life, was the only thing in the nature of a plan that occurred to her.
“It has come into my thoughts,” said Mr. Grewgious, “that as the respected lady, Miss Twinkleton, occasionally repairs to London in the recess, with the view of extending her connection, and being available for interviews with metropolitan parents, if any—whether, until we have time in which to turn ourselves round, we might invite Miss Twinkleton to come and stay with you for a month?”
“Stay where, sir?”
“Whether,” explained Mr. Grewgious, “we might take a furnished lodging in town for a month, and invite Miss Twinkleton to assume the charge of you in it for that period?”
“And afterwards?” hinted Rosa.
“And afterwards,” said Mr. Grewgious, “we should be no worse off than we are now.”
“I think that might smooth the way,” assented Rosa.