what ye see. What have ye done since Bows went, Emily?"

"Sure, I've made a pie," Emily said, with perfect simplicity. She
pronounced it "Poy."

"If ye'll try it at four o'clock, sir, say the word," said Costigan
gallantly. "That girl, sir, makes the best veal and ham pie in England,
and I think I can promise ye a glass of punch of the right flavour."

Pen had promised to be at home to dinner at six o'clock, but the rascal
thought he could accommodate pleasure and duty in this point, and was
only too eager to accept this invitation. He looked on with delight and
wonder whilst Ophelia busied herself about the room, and prepared for the
dinner. She arranged the glasses, and laid and smoothed the little cloth,
all which duties she performed with a quiet grace and good humour, which
enchanted her guest more and more. The "poy" arrived from the baker's in
the hands of one of the little choir-boy's brothers at the proper hour:
and at four o'clock Pen found himself at dinner--actually at dinner with
the greatest tragic actress in the world, and her father--with the
handsomest woman in all creation--with his first and only love, whom he
had adored ever since when?--ever since yesterday, ever since for ever.
He ate a crust of her making, he poured her out a glass of beer, he saw
her drink a glass of punch--just one wine-glass full--out of the tumbler
which she mixed for her papa. She was perfectly good-natured, and offered
to mix one for Pendennis too. It was prodigiously strong; Pen had never
in his life drunk so much spirits and water. Was it the punch, or the
punch-maker who intoxicated him?

During dinner, when the Captain, whom his daughter treated most
respectfully, ceased prattling about himself and his adventures, Pen