In less than a minute the bar was a blade, it was work incredibly unlike his method in carving; yet, at a glance, Grace saw it was also perfection, but in an opposite style.
In carving, the hand of a countess; in forging, a blacksmith's arm.
She gazed with secret wonder and admiration; and the comparison was to the disadvantage of Mr.Coventry; for he sat shivering, and the other seemed all power.

And women adore power.
When Little had forged the knives and forks, and two deep saucers, with magical celerity, he plunged them into water a minute, and they hissed; he sawed off the rim of a pew, and fitted handles.
Then he washed his face and hands, and made himself dry and glowing; let down his sleeves, and served them some Yorkshire pie, and bread, and salt, and stirred a little sugar into the wine, and poured it into the saucers.
"Now eat a bit, both of you, before you go." Mr.Coventry responded at once to the invitation.
But Grace said, timidly, "Yes, if you will eat with us." "No, no," said he.

"I've not been perished with snow, nor rolled in a river." Grace hesitated still; but Coventry attacked the pie directly.

It was delicious.

"By Jove, sir," said he, "you are the prince of blacksmiths." "Blacksmiths!" said Grace, coloring high.