n her, and what could he do? No man could say, 'Mr
F.'s Aunt, will you permit me?' Every man retired from the spoon, as
Clennam did, cowed and baffled.

There was mutton, a steak, and an apple-pie--nothing in the remotest
way connected with ganders--and the dinner went on like a disenchanted
feast, as it truly was. Once upon a time Clennam had sat at that table
taking no heed of anything but Flora; now the principal heed he took
of Flora was to observe, against his will, that she was very fond of
porter, that she combined a great deal of sherry with sentiment, and
that if she were a little overgrown, it was upon substantial grounds.
The last of the Patriarchs had always been a mighty eater, and he
disposed of an immense quantity of solid food with the benignity of a
good soul who was feeding some one else. Mr Pancks, who was always in a
hurry, and who referred at intervals to a little dirty notebook which he
kept beside him (perhaps containing the names of the defaulters he meant
to look up by way of dessert), took in his victuals much as if he were
coaling; with a good deal of noise, a good deal of dropping about, and a
puff and a snort occasionally, as if he were nearly ready to steam away.

All through dinner, Flora combined her present appetite for eating and
drinking with her past appetite for romantic love, in a way that made
Clennam afraid to lift his eyes from his plate; since he could not
look towards her without receiving some glance of mysterious meaning or
warning, as if they were engaged in a plot. Mr F.'s Aunt sat silently
defying him with an aspect of the greatest bitterness, until the removal
of the cloth and the appearance of the decanters, when she originated
another observation--struck into the conversation like a clock, without
consulting anybody.

Flora had just said, 'Mr Clennam, will you give me a glass of port for
Mr F.'s Aunt?'

'The Monument near London Bridge,' that lady instantly proclaimed, 'was
put up arter the Great Fire of London; and the Great Fire of London was
not the fire in which your uncle George's workshops was burned down.'

Mr Pancks, with his former courage, said, 'Indeed, ma'am? All right!'
But appearing to be incensed by imaginary contradiction, or other
ill-usage, Mr F.'s Aunt, instead of relapsing into silence, made the
following additional proclamation:

'I hate a fool!'

She imparted to this sentiment, in itself almost Solomonic, so extremely
injurious and personal