'
Mr. Snowdon lay back in the chair, his hands in his waistcoat
pockets, his legs outstretched upon the fender. He was smiling
placidly, now at the preparing breakfast, now at Clem. The latter he
plainly regarded with much admiration, and cared not to conceal it.
When, in a few minutes, it was announced to him that the meal was
ready, he dragged his chair up to the table and reseated himself
with a sigh of satisfaction. A dish of excellent ham, and eggs as
nearly fresh as can be obtained in Clerkenwell, invited him with
appetising odour; a large cup of what is known to the generality of
English people as coffee steamed at his right hand; slices of new
bread lay ready cut upon a plate; a slab of the most expensive
substitute for butter caught his eye with yellow promise; vinegar
and mustard appealed to the refinements of his taste.
'I've got a couple more eggs, if you'd like them doin',' said Mrs.
Peckover, when she had watched the beginning of his attack upon the
viands.
'I think I shall manage pretty well with this supply,' returned Mr.
Snowdon.
As he ate he kept silence, partly because it was his habit, partly
in consequence of the activity of his mind.
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