At the upper end of the table, Mr.Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other.
Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr.Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity.

A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.
'Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try him, do; only this one.' 'What a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarked Mr.Claypole, after he had swallowed it.

'What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte ?' 'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.
'So it is,' acquiesced Mr.Claypole.

'An't yer fond of oysters ?' 'Not overmuch,' replied Charlotte.

'I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself.' 'Lor!' said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!' 'Have another,' said Charlotte.