When it is brown, he dives again and produces butter, with which he completes his work.
Mr Wegg, as an artful man who is sure of his supper by-and-bye, presses muffin on his host to soothe him into a compliant state of mind, or, as one might say, to grease his works.

As the muffins disappear, little by little, the black shelves and nooks and corners begin to appear, and Mr Wegg gradually acquires an imperfect notion that over against him on the chimney-piece is a Hindoo baby in a bottle, curved up with his big head tucked under him, as he would instantly throw a summersault if the bottle were large enough.
When he deems Mr Venus's wheels sufficiently lubricated, Mr Wegg approaches his object by asking, as he lightly taps his hands together, to express an undesigning frame of mind: 'And how have I been going on, this long time, Mr Venus ?' 'Very bad,' says Mr Venus, uncompromisingly.
'What?
Am I still at home ?' asks Wegg, with an air of surprise.
'Always at home.' This would seem to be secretly agreeable to Wegg, but he veils his feelings, and observes, 'Strange.

To what do you attribute it ?' 'I don't know,' replies Venus, who is a haggard melancholy man, speaking in a weak voice of querulous complaint, 'to what to attribute it, Mr Wegg.

I can't work you into a miscellaneous one, no how.

Do what I will, you can't be got to fit.