sitting with his
back to Mr Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in
another minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.

Uncouth and unsatisfactory as this short interview had been, it had
furnished Mr Pecksniff with a hint which, supposing nothing further
were imparted to him, repaid the journey up and home again. For the good
gentleman had never (for want of an opportunity) dived into the depths
of Mr Jonas's nature; and any recipe for catching such a son-in-law
(much more one written on a leaf out of his own father's book) was worth
the having. In order that he might lose no chance of improving so fair
an opportunity by allowing Anthony to fall asleep before he had finished
all he had to say, Mr Pecksniff, in the disposal of the refreshments on
the table, a work to which he now applied himself in earnest, resorted
to many ingenious contrivances for attracting his attention; such as
coughing, sneezing, clattering the teacups, sharpening the knives,
dropping the loaf, and so forth. But all in vain, for Mr Jonas returned,
and Anthony had said no more.

'What! My father asleep again?' he cried, as he hung up his hat, and
cast a look at him. 'Ah! and snoring. Only hear!'

'He snores very deep,' said Mr Pecksniff.

'Snores deep?' repeated Jonas. 'Yes; let him alone for that. He'll snore
for six, at any time.'

'Do you know, Mr Jonas,' said Pecksniff, 'that I think your father
is--don't let me alarm you--breaking?'

'Oh, is he though?' replied Jonas, with a shake of the head which
expressed the closeness of his dutiful observation. 'Ecod, you don't
know how tough he is. He ain't upon the move yet.'

'It struck me that he was changed, both in his appearance and manner,'
said Mr Pecksniff.

'That's all you know about it,' returned Jonas, seating himself with a
melancholy air. 'He never was better than he is now. How are they all at
home? How's Charity?'

'Blooming, Mr Jonas, blooming.'

'And the other one; how's she?'

'Volatile trifler!' said Mr Pecksniff, fondly musing. 'She is well, she
is well. Roving from parlour to bedroom, Mr Jonas, like a bee, skimming
from post to pillar, like the butterfly; dipping her young beak into our
currant wine, like the humming-bird! Ah! were she a little less giddy
than she is; and had she but the sterling qualities of Cherry, my young
friend!'

'Is she so very giddy, then?' asked Jonas.

'Well, well!' said Mr Pecksniff, with great feeling; 'le