We had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of his

promise to tell me about Miss Havisham.

"True," he replied. "I'll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the topic,

Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put the

knife in the mouth,--for fear of accidents,--and that while the fork is

reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It is

scarcely worth mentioning, only it's as well to do as other people do.

Also, the spoon is not generally used over-hand, but under. This has

two advantages. You get at your mouth better (which after all is the

object), and you save a good deal of the attitude of opening oysters, on

the part of the right elbow."

He offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that we both

laughed and I scarcely blushed.

"Now," he pursued, "concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you must

know, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her

father denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in

your part of the world, and was a brewer. I don't know why it should

be a crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you

cannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was

and brew. You see it every day."

"Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?" said I.

"Not on any account," returned Herbert; "but a public-house may keep a

gentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his

daughter."

"Miss Havisham was an only child?" I hazarded.

"Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child;

she had a half-brother. Her father privately married again--his cook, I

rather think."

"I thought he was proud," said I.

"My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately,

because he was proud, and in course of time she died. When she was dead,

I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then

the son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are

acquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous,

extravagant, undutiful,--altogether bad. At last his father disinherited

him; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though

not nearly so well off as Miss Havisham.--Take another glass of wine,

and excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one

to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one's glass, as to turn it

bottom upwards with the rim on one's nose."




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