The interview with Mr.Boythorn was a long one, and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his room was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation.
At last Mr.Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the conference.

"My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's a Tartar!" "Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I.
Mr.Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner.

The sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation on me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under which he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.
He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.
"What will you take yourself, miss?
You'll take a morsel of something ?" "No, thank you," said I.
"Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss ?" said Mr.Guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.
"Nothing, thank you," said I."I have only waited to see that you have everything you want.

Is there anything I can order for you ?" "No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure.

I've everything that I can require to make me comfortable--at least I--not comfortable--I'm never that." He drank off two more glasses of wine, one after another.
I thought I had better go.
"I beg your pardon, miss!" said Mr.Guppy, rising when he saw me rise.