these singular reflections appeared to consist.

The fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and the egg-sauce
stagnant, before the Captain remembered that they were on the board, and
fell to with the assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly
dispatched the banquet. The Captain's delight and wonder at the quiet
housewifery of Florence in assisting to clear the table, arrange the
parlour, and sweep up the hearth--only to be equalled by the fervency of
his protest when she began to assist him--were gradually raised to that
degree, that at last he could not choose but do nothing himself, and
stand looking at her as if she were some Fairy, daintily performing
these offices for him; the red rim on his forehead glowing again, in his
unspeakable admiration.

But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the mantel-shelf gave it
into his hand, and entreated him to smoke it, the good Captain was so
bewildered by her attention that he held it as if he had never held a
pipe, in all his life. Likewise, when Florence, looking into the little
cupboard, took out the case-bottle and mixed a perfect glass of grog for
him, unasked, and set it at his elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he
felt himself so graced and honoured. When he had filled his pipe in
an absolute reverie of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for him--the
Captain having no power to object, or to prevent her--and resuming
her place on the old sofa, looked at him with a smile so loving and
so grateful, a smile that showed him so plainly how her forlorn heart
turned to him, as her face did, through grief, that the smoke of the
pipe got into the Captain's throat and made him cough, and got into the
Captain's eyes, and made them blink and water.

The manner in which the Captain tried to make believe that the cause
of these effects lay hidden in the pipe itself, and the way in which he
looked into the bowl for it, and not finding it there, pretended to blow
it out of the stem, was wonderfully pleasant. The pipe soon getting
into better condition, he fell into that state of repose becoming a good
smoker; but sat with his eyes fixed on Florence, and, with a beaming
placidity not to be described, and stopping every now and then to
discharge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it forth, as if it
were a scroll coming out of his mouth, bearing the legend 'Poor Wal'r,
ay, ay. Drownded, ain't he?' after which he would resume his smoking
with infinite gentleness.