fell into a pond,
or so fat that he couldn't see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that
he locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a
bird's-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in the
neighborhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious, and
you have been a blacksmith,---would you mind it?"

"I shouldn't mind anything that you propose," I answered, "but I don't
understand you."

"Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There's a charming piece of
music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith."

"I should like it very much."

"Then, my dear Handel," said he, turning round as the door opened,
"here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the table,
because the dinner is of your providing."

This I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a
nice little dinner,--seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor's Feast,--and
it acquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent
circumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us.
This again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the
banquet off; for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have
said, the lap of luxury,--being entirely furnished forth from the
coffee-house,--the circumjacent region of sitting-room was of a
comparatively pastureless and shifty character; imposing on the waiter
the wandering habits of putting the covers on the floor (where he
fell over them), the melted butter in the arm-chair, the bread on the
bookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into my
bed in the next room,--where I found much of its parsley and butter in
a state of congelation when I retired for the night. All this made the
feast delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch me, my
pleasure was without alloy.

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