“It is the refection, madam,” said he. “Will you permit me to lay the table? Sir Charles is accustomed to partake of certain dishes and to drink certain wines, so that we usually bring them with us when we visit.” He opened the basket, and in a minute he had the table all shining with silver and glass, and studded with dainty dishes. So quick and neat and silent was he in all he did, that my father was as taken with him as I was. “You’d have made a right good foretopman if your heart is as stout as your fingers are quick,” said he. “Did you never wish to have the honour of serving your country?” “It is my honour, sir, to serve Sir Charles Tregellis, and I desire no other master,” he answered. “But I will convey his dressing-case from the inn, and then all will be ready.” He came back with a great silver-mounted box under his arm, and close at his heels was the gentleman whose coming had made such a disturbance. My first impression of my uncle as he entered the room was that one of his eyes was swollen to the size of an apple. It caught the breath from my lips—that monstrous, glistening eye. But the next instant I perceived that he held a round glass in the front of it, which magnified it in this fashion. He looked at us each in turn, and then he bowed very gracefully to my mother and kissed her upon either cheek. “You will permit me to compliment you, my dear Mary,” said he, in a voice which was the most mellow and beautiful that I have ever heard. “I can assure you that the country air has used you wondrous well, and that I should be proud to see my pretty sister in the Mall. I am your servant, sir,” he continued, holding out his hand to my father. “It was but last week that I had the honour of dining with my friend, Lord St. Vincent, and I took occasion to mention you to him. I may tell you that your name is not forgotten at the Admiralty, sir, and I hope that I may see you soon walking the poop of a 74-gun ship of your own. So this is my nephew, is it?” He put a hand upon each of my shoulders in a very friendly way and looked me up and down. “How old are you, nephew?” he asked. “Seventeen, sir.” “You look older. You look eighteen, at the least. I find him very passable, Mary—very passable, indeed. He has not the _bel_ air, the _tournure_—in our uncouth English we have no word for it. But he is as healthy as a May-hedge in bloom.”