alone.

She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself,
and was already warming it on a gridiron over the fire for her
father, clad in an old grey gown and a black cap, awaiting his
supper at the table. A clean cloth was spread before him, with
knife, fork, and spoon, salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter
ale-pot. Such zests as his particular little phial of cayenne
pepper and his pennyworth of pickles in a saucer, were not wanting.

She started, coloured deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more
with his eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand,
entreated her to be reassured and to trust him.

'I found this gentleman,' said the uncle--'Mr Clennam, William, son
of Amy's friend--at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of
paying his respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not.
This is my brother William, sir.'

'I hope,' said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, 'that my respect
for your daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented
to you, sir.'

'Mr Clennam,' returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in the
flat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, 'you do
me honour. You are welcome, sir;' with a low bow. 'Frederick, a
chair. Pray sit down, Mr Clennam.'

He put his black cap on again as he had taken it off, and resumed
his own seat. There was a wonderful air of benignity and patronage