He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him.

He is honoured with Mr.Guppy's particular confidence and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficult points in private life.
Mr.Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning after trying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of cooling it.

Mr.Smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler.

Mr.Guppy propounds for Mr.
Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more you drink the thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor.
While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr.Guppy becomes conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below and turning itself up in the direction of his face.

At the same time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressed voice cries, "Hip! Gup-py!" "Why, you don't mean it!" says Mr.Guppy, aroused.