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Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Hello. I am back. I am so happy to be back with you. I had a great trip. It was very nice to get away for a little while to have a little vacation. It was lovely to see my family. We had a wonderful Easter and it was great. But I really did miss you. I. And I missed David. I miss David Copperfield. It felt like all of this stuff was happening and I wasn't there to see it and I wasn't there to get to talk to you about it. So I really did miss you. And I know that even now I am alone in my room talking into this microphone. But it does feel different. It feels like, okay, now you are going to hear this in real time and respond in real time. And we're back. We're back together again. And I'm so, so happy to be here. I can't wait to jump in. So I got lots of amazing letters while I was away. Lots of reactions to all the things that I knew you were gonna have reactions to, like Dora and the fact that Ms. Murdstone showed up again, Uriah wanting to marry Agnes, and Agnes's whole situation and David's whole situation. So we're going to talk about all, all of that and we're going to talk about chapter 27, which we read last time. So we have lots to talk about. I don't really have any new announcements today. I am working on scheduling the tea time for April. I'm sorry that I haven't got that date locked in just yet. I'm juggling a few scheduling things, but it should be the last week of April and on Thursday, I will let you know for sure what date that's going to be. But other than that, please just make sure you subscribe to the show. Please tap the five stars if you haven't done that already and you're enjoying the show. Please leave a positive wherever you're listening to the show. That really helps the show to kind of magically appear in people's podcast. Players that haven't heard of the show before. And that's wonderful. It's wonderful when people just kind of randomly Find the show. I love getting those emails from people. And if you've done all of those things already or for some reason you can't or don't want to do those things, tell a friend, tell a colleague, tell a family member about the show. We want to get more and more people listening because the more people that are reading these books, talking about these books, talking, the better the world is going to be. I really do think that's true and I think it's wonderful to have people in your life that you can talk to about these books because these are such wonderful worlds and we're making such wonderful friends with all of these characters that you want to share them with people, you want to talk about them in real life with real people. So I hope that you will do that, spread the word about the show. I also hope you'll scroll into the show notes and check out the links that are there. I just mentioned Tea time. You can sign up to our online community, you can join, become a member and join us in our lovely drawing room community that we have and chat with lots of other people. That's a way to talk about these books as well. There's always somebody over there. So if you join, you will make a new friend and you can join us for our monthly Tea Times, which are voice chats where we get to talk to each other. It's really fun. So that link is there. You can get some merch. New merch is coming, but isn't there yet. But you can check out what we've got so far, far. And you can make a financial donation if you want to support the work I do and make it so that I can spend my work time on this show instead of on other things. So lots of links to check out, lots of things to do, lots of ways to connect. So I hope you'll check out the show notes as well. But now let's just get right into this episode because as I say, we have several different things we need to talk about today. So last time we read chapter 27. So we're going to do a recap for that and then we'll talk about chapter 27, but also some of the other chapters that we read while I was away. And then today we'll be reading chapter 28. So here is the recap. All right, so where we left off, David decides to visit his old school friend, Tommy Traddles. He finds him in a rundown area in a house that reminds David very much of Mr. And Mrs. Macawer's house. And he finds another similarity because at the door is a milkman saying that he hasn't been paid. David goes upstairs and sees Traddles, who's very glad to see him and is his old optimistic self, but has clearly fallen on hard times. The uncle who raised him didn't like him and cut him out of his will. And so now Traddles has been doing odd jobs trying to make enough money to live. He did eventually pay to be articled and works in law chambers, but he's doing all sorts of other things to make ends meet, like helping a publisher to compile an encyclopedia. He's engaged to be married to the daughter of a curate, but he has to wait until he has enough money. But he says that his fiance loves him and will wait for him. Eventually it turns out that Traddles landlords actually are Mr. And Mrs. Macawer. And David meets them again and they're all very happy to see each other. He invites them to come have dinner with him another night. And he leaves with Mr. Micawber, telling him on way out that something is about to turn up for them. Okay, so what I'm going to do this time is I'm going to read two sets of letters. I'm going to read some letters about the chapters that we read while I was away, and I'm going to talk about those for just a couple of minutes. And then I'm going to read some letters about Chapter 27, and I'll talk about that for a couple of minutes and then we'll get into chapter 28. And I want to do this because it turns out that you all had basically the same reaction to the chapters that we read while I was away. And I got this kind of outpour drawing of letters and thoughts from you guys that all ran along the same lines. And I think that's really, really cool. I love it that you guys are all on the same page. And so I want to read you several of the letters that I got so that you can kind of feel that along with me. And then I'll just talk about that for a minute and then we'll move on to chapter 27, read some questions about that and then talk about that. So I will start with these questions and comments that came in while I was away. I'm going to read five of them. The first one comes from Lauren. Lauren says you compare David's experience of being oppressed by Ms. Murdstone in his youth to Dora's position as a more independent young adult who can ignore Her. But it occurred to me that Dora is not unlike David's mother. Young, a bit frivolous and impractical, childish. So to find that she is accompanied by Ms. Murdstone as Clara was seems a bit ominous to me. Dickens predates Freud, but it certainly looks as though David is in love with a version of his mother. This next one comes from David Beman. He says Miss Dora seems to mirror David's mother in her childlike way. I Hope Agnes avoids Mr. Heap and possibly marries David. She seems to have the firmness and constancy David needs, but may be lost if David does not wake up. This next one comes from Harini. Harini says David is such an idiot, it's obvious that Agnes has an interest in him. I say this because generally when someone likes a person, they are very interested in knowing the love interests of that person. It looks like Agnes is always trying to find out that information from David. Silly David. I hope he sees this and saves her from the whole Uriah situation. This next one comes from Cherry Stegall. I hope I'm saying that right. She says, I wanted to share a comparison I found about Dora, David's new love interest. The description of Dora sounds very much like how Aunt Betsy describes David's sweet mother. Young, without a good head on her shoulders. Perhaps that is what has drawn David to her initially. But now that David is acquainted with her, he has fallen head over heels for her. Did you think that similarity existed too? And this last one comes from Donald Sutherland. He says it's Agnes, right? She's the one. Slow burning candle, the foundation for life. That's perfect for David. He even knows it, although isn't aware that he knows her to be the one. When a man gets angry at the thought of a Uriah Heap type imposing his intentions, well, I was hoping David was going to tell his better intentions right back, but he didn't. And then, poof. Yet another glimmer of something shiny pops up to catch his eye. This one named Dora. Sigh. Grow up, my good man. Sidle up next to Agnes. You'll thank me later. Okay, so I wanted to read you all of those letters and I got a lot more like them. So I wanted to read these to you before we talk about chapter 27, because I wanted to show you. Like I was saying that there is pretty much a consensus out there in story time for grownups. Land that on two important points. The first is that many of you feel that Dora bears a significant relationship to David's mother. There's a comparison between the two. The fact that Dora is sort of pretty and childlike and kind of frivolous, it makes her seem very much like Clara, the mother. And the fact that Dickens places her with Ms. Murdstone seems to hint that perhaps Dickens means for us to make this comparison. The Murdstones are this blast from the past, right? And the past that Ms. Murdstone is blasting from is that past in which David was living with his mother and in which the Murdstone sort of controlled her to death, essentially. So seeing Dora with Ms. Murdstone and having her be a similar seeming sort of person to the mother does kind of beg that comparison. And the fact that the thing that David seems to find so wonderful about Dora is exactly this childishness, it could be because he loved his mother so much, and that way of being has kind of embedded itself into his psyche or whatever as the image of his ideal romantic partner. So that's one thing that we all seem to agree on, that Dora seems to be a person very much like David's mother. The other thing that you were all writing in about is the fact that you feel that actually Agnes would make a much better romantic partner for David. That instead of this frivolous, silly, kind of childlike woman that he barely knows, the actual right match for him would be the kind, intelligent, wise woman that he has known since childhood and thinks of as his good angel. Some of you feel that you can detect signs that Agnes is actually already in love with David, right? The fact that she seems so interested in his various love interests is one clue that you're pointing to. And many of you feel like the obvious solution to the whole situation with Uriah is for David to swoop in and marry Agnes, since she maybe already loves him. And since, according to you all, she's actually a much better match for him than Dora. So I just wanted to read you those letters because I said, said I'd come back around to your reactions when I got back, and there was such a definite consensus that I thought it made sense to just read several letters so that you guys could know that other people out there are feeling the same way. But one person who isn't feeling that way is David, right? David doesn't seem to be making any sort of connection between Dora and his mother or his feelings for Dora and his feelings for his mother. He's just totally smitten with this beautiful, childlike woman, and he finds everything about her delightful. Nor is David feeling like actually Agnes is the woman he really ought to be with or the woman he actually loves without knowing it or something like that. He doesn't see Agnes like that at all. So do we know better than David, or are we like these sort of meddling mothers who are trying to steer our son in the direction that we want rather than in the direction that's right for him? I think that's not clear yet, but it's really fun. I think that we're in agreement here, so we'll have to kind of anxiously watch it all play out for David. But I wanted to share all of that with you because I think, you know, I think it's probably what we're supposed to be feeling at this point. It's certainly what we all are feeling at this point. So know that you're in good company. But now I want to read you three more letters. Like I said, I'm going to now read some letters that were specific to chapter 27, which is the chapter that we read last time. So it was a very short chapter, which means there's not a ton to talk about. But I'll just read you these reactions to it and we'll talk for a bit before we get to today's chapter. So, as I say, there are three. So the first one comes from Lauren. I read part of Lauren's letter just a moment ago when we were talking about the other, other chapters. This is another part of that same letter. She says, my other observation is that Mr. Macawber, as frustrating as he can be with his perennial money troubles, takes David innocently into his confidence, not with any ulterior motive of asking for a loan. If he were hinting at wanting to borrow money, I'm sure Dickens could make that plain. But I couldn't detect any hint of that in the encounter. This next one comes from Carol. She says, I, of course, the Micawbers reappear in David's life. To my surprise, I found Mr. Micawber almost noble, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because he never seems to despair. He just tackles life as it comes to him. Time will tell. And the last one comes from our online community, the Drawing Room. This person goes by the handle Rachel C. She says, I really like Traddles. He's so sensible and realistic. A much better friend to Davy, I think, than Steerforth could have ever been. And did anyone else think it was just so sweet how Traddles and his betrothed are already making a home together? I also didn't expect Mr. Macawber making a comeback, but I found his and Davies reconnection very Heartwarming. Okay, so speaking of blasts from the past, right, we have two essentially in this chapter. The first is Tommy Traddles, who's David's old school friend. And the second is Mr. And Mrs. Macabre. And if you remember, this is not the first time that the Macabre's have shown back up in David's life since he was actually living with them when he was working at Murdstone and Grinby's. He met them again when he was first at Canterbury, when he first moved into the Wickfields house and he was having tea with Uriah Heep, remember, and his mother and everything. And Mr. Macawer showed up, but they had gone back to London and he hadn't heard from them again for the rest of his time in Canterbury. Except here they are again. And what's interesting here, I think, is that Traddles is now essentially in the same position that David was when he was living with the Micawbers as a child. The Macawers are Traddles landlords, as it turns out. And the life that Traddles is living is very much the sort of life that David might have been living had he never run away. To Ms. Betsy, Traddles explains that the uncle that was supposed to raise him didn't like him and left him out of the will. And now he says, this is a quote. I am living by the sort of work I have mentioned still and I hope one of these days to get connected with some newspaper which would almost be the making of my fortune. Okay, so he's kind of scraping by, essentially. He's trying to make ends meet. He's living with the Macabre. And it's sort of like looking at an alternative version of David's life or something like that. And Traddles relationship with the Macabre is very much like what David's was before. In the sense that Traddles has kind of gotten subsumed into the Micawber family, having no family of his own, such that the welfare of the Micawbers has become his own. Here's what Mr. Micawber says. He says, I am, however, delighted to add that I have now an immediate prospect of something turning up. I am not at liberty to say in what direction which I trust will enable me to provide permanently both for myself and for your friend Traddles, in whom I have an unaffected interest. Which speaks to what Lauren and Carol were saying about the Macawverts, which is that for all of their ridiculousness and their seeming inability to get an actual paying job. Or to do anything that actually would get them a job. They are good people, they're kind people. They don't take advantage of anyone. And they are emotionally generous to those who come into their orbit and need people to care from them. They're not the sorts of poor people who take advantage of you. David has met tons of those. Right. But the macabre's aren't like that. They don't take your money or even ask you for it if you don't have it. Their real problem is that they refuse to see themselves as poor people or as lower class people. They see themselves as genteel people. And therefore they see themselves as above the sorts of work that might actually make them some money. In this chapter, in chapter 27, Mr. McCawver says with a washer woman. So he's talking about their living situation at the moment, he says, with a washerwoman who exposes hard bake for sale in her parlor window dwelling next door. And a Bow street officer residing over the way. You may imagine that his society, his being Traddles is a source of consolation to myself and to Mrs. Macawer. So he's saying that middle class people, like lawyers, for example. Are much more their type of people than lower class people like washer women or sort of policeman type people, which is what a Bow street officer is. But of course that's not true. They just think it's true and that's actually their undoing. But none of this means that they aren't kind or good people, because they are. And so is Traddles. I totally agree with Rachel here. Traddles seems like a much better friend for David than Steerforth. There's an equality between them that isn't there between David and Steerforth. And there's an earnestness to Traddles that matches the earnestness in David. I think they're much more similar kinds of people than David and Steerforth are. And there's a kind of good naturedness to Traddles that implies kindness and patience. And a sense that he's gonna give people the benefit of the doubt. I mean, the way that he talks about Salem House, the school where he and David went, is kind of interesting. He says. And do you remember when I got caned for crying about Mr. Mel old creakle? I should like to see him again too. I mean, that's pretty forgiving, I think. And it's interesting that Traddles is engaged to a girl that he actually seems to have a real relationship with. And it sounds like a very sweet, very caring sort of relationship. Here's what he says. She is such a dear girl. A little older than me but the dearest girl. I told you I was going out of town. I have been down there, I walked there and I walked back and I had the most delightful time. I dare say ours is likely to be a rather long engagement but our motto is wait and hope. We always say that. Wait and hope, we always say. And she would wait Copperfield till she was 60, any age you can mention for me. So it's very sweet I think. And it's kind of a contrast to David's sort of like non relationship with Dora which is based on basically one weekend together and they're not even really together. And the things that he likes about her are at this point at least pretty, super superficial things like her appearance and her demeanor and all of this. So again I agree with Rachel that Traddles is a much better friend and maybe even better role model in some ways than Steerforth is. So there's a way in which now David's past is kind of coming back not necessarily to haunt him, but perhaps to try to reintegrate itself with his present. The macabre's are back, Traddles is back, Steerforth is around here somewhere and Ms. Murdstone is lurking in the background as well. Not to mention the whole Agnes and Uriah situation being totally unresolved. So there are a lot of balls up in the air right now and we've got to find out what's going to happen. And there is only one way to do that, which is of course to keep reading. But don't forget to write to me. It's faithkmoore.com, click on Contact. Send me all your questions and thoughts. I'm back now and I want to hear them all. You can also find a link in the show notes to that contact page and I hope that you really will get in touch. Alright, let's get started with chapter 28 of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter 28, Mr. McCawber's gauntlet. Until the day arrived on which I was to entertain my newly found old friends, I lived principally on Dora and coffee. In my lovelorn condition my appetite languished and I was glad of it for I felt as though it would have been an act of perfidy towards Dora to have a natural relish for my dinner. Perfidy means deceitfulness or untrustworthiness. So he's saying that he feels it would have been somehow a betrayal of Dora to have a good appetite while he's pining for her. The quantity of walking exercise I took was not in this respect attended with its usual consequence, as the disappointment counteracted the fresh air. I have my doubts, too, founded on the acute experience acquired at this period of my life, whether a sound enjoyment of animal food can develop itself freely in any human subject who is always in torment from tight boots. I think the extremities require to be at peace before the stomach will conduct itself with vigor. So he's saying he thinks he can't really feel hungry or enjoy your food when your feet hurt. On the occasion of this domestic little party, I did not repeat my former extensive preparations. I merely provided a pair of soles, a small leg of mutton and a pigeon pie. Mrs. Krupp broke out into rebellion on my first bashful hint in reference to the cooking of the fish and joint, and said with a dignified sense of injury, no, no, sir, you will not ask me such a thing, for you are better acquainted with me than suppose me capable of doing what I cannot with ampoule satisfaction to my own feelings. But in the end a compromise was effected, and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve this feat on condition that I dined from home for a fortnight afterwards, meaning she'll cook for him and his guests if he doesn't ask her to cook at all for two weeks afterwards. And here I may remark that what I underwent from Mrs. Crupp in consequence of the tyranny she established over me was dreadful. I never was so much afraid of anyone. We made a compromise of everything if I hesitated. She was taken with that wonderful disorder which was always lying in ambush in her system, ready at the shortest notice to prey upon her vitals. If I rang the bell impatiently after half a dozen unavailing modest pulls, and she appeared at last, which was not by any means to be relied upon, she would appear with a reproachful aspect, sink breathless on a chair near the door, lay her hand upon her Nankeen bosom, and become so ill that I was glad at any sacrifice of brandy or anything else to get rid of her. If I objected to having my bed made at five o' clock in the afternoon, which I do still think an uncomfortable arrangement, one motion of her hand towards the same nankeen region of wounded sensibility was enough to make me falter. An apology, in short. I would have done anything in an honourable way, rather than give Mrs. Crupp offence and she was the terror of my life. I bought a second hand dumb waiter for this dinner party in preference to re engaging the handy young man against whom I had conceived a prejudice in consequence of meeting him in the Strand one Sunday morning in a waistcoat remarkably like one of mine which had been missing since the former occasion. The young gal was re engaged but on the stipulation that she should only bring in the dishes and then withdraw to the landing place beyond the outer door where a habit of sniffing she had contracted would be lost upon the guests and where her retiring on the plates would be a physical impossibility. Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch to be compounded by Mr. Micawber having provided a bottle of lavender water, two wax candles, a paper of mixed pins, and a pincushion to assist Mrs. Micawber in her toilette at my dressing table, having also caused the fire in my bedroom to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber's convenience, and having laid the cloth with my own hands, I awaited the result with composure. At the appointed time my three visitors arrived together. Mr. Micawber with more shirt collar than usual and a new ribbon to his eye glass, Mrs. Micawber with her cap in a whitey brown paper parcel, Traddles carrying the parcel and supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. They were all delighted with my residence. When I conducted Mrs. Micawber to my dressing table and she saw the scale on which it was prepared for her, she was in such raptures that she called Mr. Micawber to come and look. My dear Copperfield, said Mr. Micawber, this is luxurious. This is a way of life which reminds me of a period when I was myself in a state of celibacy and Mrs. Micawber had not yet been solicited to place light her faith at the Hiberneal altar, meaning before they were married. He means solicited by him, Mr. Copperfield, said Mrs. Micawber archly. He cannot answer for others. My dear, returned Mr. Micawber with sudden seriousness, I have no desire to answer for others. I am too well aware that when in the inscrutable degrees of fate you were reserved for me, it is possible you may have been reserved for one destined after a protracted struggle at length to fall a victim to pecuniary involvements of a complicated nature. I understand your allusion, my love. I regret it, but I can bear it. Micawber. Exclaimed Mrs. Micawber in tears, have I deserved this? I who never have deserted you, who Never will desert you, Micawber. My love, said Mr. Micawber, much affected, you will forgive. And our old and tried friend Copperfield will, I am sure, forgive the momentary laceration of a wounded spirit made sensitive by a recent collision with the minion of power. In other words, with a ribald turncock attached to the waterworks and will pity, not condemn its excesses. Mr. Micawber then embraced Mrs. Micawber and pressed my hand leaving me to infer from this broken illusion that his domestic supply of water had been cut off that afternoon in consequence of default in the payment of the company's rates. Okay, so Mr. Micawber is upset because they've cut off his water supply because he hasn't paid the bill. To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subject I informed Mr. Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl of punch and led him to the lemons. His recent despondency, not to say despair, was gone in a moment. I never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance of lemon peel and sugar the odour of burning rum and the steam of boiling water as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon. It was wonderful to see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of these delicate fumes as he stirred and mixed and tasted and looked as if he were making instead of punch a fortune for his family down to the latest posterity. As to Mrs. Micawber, I don't know whether it was the effect of the cap or the lavender water or the pins or the fire or the wax candles but she came out of my room, comparatively speaking, lovely. And the lark was never gayer than that excellent woman. I suppose I never ventured to inquire but I suppose that Mrs. Crop, after frying the soles, was taken ill because we broke down at that point. The leg of mutton came up very red within and very pale without besides having a foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over it as if it had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen fireplace. But we were not in condition to judge of this fact from the appearance of the gravy forasmuch as the young gal had dropped it upon the stairs where it remained by the by in a long train until it was worn out. The pigeon pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie the crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking full of lumps and bumps with nothing particular underneath. In short, the banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy about the failure I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora. If I had not been relieved by the great good humour of my company and by a bright suggestion from Mr. Micawber. My dear friend Copperfield said Mr. Micawber, accidents will occur in the best regulated families and. And in families not regulated by that pervading influence which sanctifies, while it enhances the. I would say, in short, by the influence of woman in the lofty character of wife. They may be expected with confidence and must be born with philosophy. If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that there are few comestibles better in their way than a devil and that I believe with a little division of labor we could accomplish a good one. If the young person in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would put it to you that this little misfortune may be easily repaired. Okay. So Mr. Mcawber is saying that if David has a little griddle that you heat over a fire, they could fix the dinner easily. There was a gridiron in the pantry on which my morning rasher of bacon was cooked. We had it in in a twinkling and immediately applied ourselves to carrying Mr. Micawber's idea into effect. The division of labor to which she had referred was this. This. Traddles cut the mutton into slices. Mr. Micawber, who could do anything of this sort to perfection, covered them with pepper, mustard, salt and cayenne. I put them on the gridiron, turned them with a fork and took them off under Mr. Micawber's direction. And Mrs. Micawber heated and continually stirred some mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had slices enough done to begin upon, we fell to with our sleeves still tucked up at the wrist, more slices sputtering and blazing on the fire, and our attention divided between the mutton on our plates and the mutton then preparing, what with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of it, the bustle of it, the frequent starting up to look after it, the frequent sitting down to dispose of it. As the crisp slices came off the gridiron hot and hot, the being so busy, so flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the midst of such a tempting noise and savor we reduced the leg of mutton to the bone. My own appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed to record it, but I really believe I forgot Dora. For a little while. I am satisfied that Mr. And Mrs. Micawber could not have enjoyed the feast more if they had sold a bed to provide it. Traddles laughed as heartily almost the whole time as he ate and worked. Indeed we all did all at once, and I dare say there was never a greater success. We were at the height of our enjoyment and were all busily engaged in our several departments, endeavoring to bring the last batch of the slices to a state of perfection that should crown the feast, when I was aware of a strange presence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the stayed Littomer, standing hat in hand before me. Remember, Littomer is Steerforth's manservant. What's the matter? I involuntarily asked. I beg your pardon, sir. I was directed to come in. Is my master not here, sir? No. Have you not seen him, sir? No. Don't you come from him? Not immediately. So, sir. Did he tell you you would find him here? Not exactly so, sir, but I should think he might be here to morrow, as he has not been here to day. Is he coming up from Oxford? I beg, sir, he returned respectfully that you will be seated and allow me to do this. With which he took the fork from my unresisting hand and bent over the gridiron as if his whole attention were concentrated on it. We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, by the appearance of Steerforth himself, but we became, in a moment, the meekest of the meek before his respectable serving man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune to show that he was quite at ease, subsided into his chair with the handle of a hastily concealed fork sticking out of the bosom of his coat as if he had stabbed himself. Mrs. Micawber put on her brown gloves and assumed a genteel languor. Traddles ran his greasy hands through his hair and stood it bolt upright and stared in confusion on the table cloth. As for me, I was a mere infant at the head of my own table, and hardly ventured to glance at the respectable phenomenon of who had come from heaven knows where to put my establishment to rights. Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridiron and gravely handed it round. We all took some, but our appreciation of it was gone, and we merely made a show of eating it. As we severally pushed away our plates, he noiselessly removed them and set on the cheese. He took that off too when it was done with, cleared the table, piled everything on. The dumb waiter gave us our wine glasses, and of his own accord wheeled the dumbwaiter into the pantry. All this was done in a perfect manner, and he never raised his eyes from what he was about. Yet his very elbows when he had his back towards me, seemed to teem with the expression of his fixed opinion that I was extremely young. Can I do anything more, sir? I thanked him and said no. But would he take no dinner himself? None. I am obliged to you, sir. Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford? I beg your pardon, sir? Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford? I should imagine that he might be here to morrow, sir. I rather thought he might have been here to day, sir. The mistake is mine, no doubt, sir. If you should see him first, said I. If you'll excuse me, sir, I don't think I shall see him first. In case you do, said I, pray say that I am sorry he was not here to day, as an old schoolfellow of his was here indeed, sir, and he divided a bow between me and Traddles with a glance. At the latter he was moving softly to the door, when in a forlorn hope of saying something naturally, which I never could to this man, I said, oh, Littimer. Sir? Did you remain long at Yarmouth that time? Not particularly so, sir. You saw the boat completed? Yes, sir. I remained behind on purpose to see the boat completed. I know. He raised his eyes to mine respectfully. Mr. Steerforth has not seen it yet, I suppose. I really can't say, sir. I thinkbut I really can't say, sir. I wish you good night, sir. He comprehended everybody present in the respectful bow with which he followed these words and disappeared. My visitors seemed to breathe more freely when he was gone, but my own relief was very great, for besides the constraint arising from that extraordinary sense of being at a disadvantage which I always had in this man's presence, my conscience had embarrassed me with whispers that I had mistrusted his master, and I could not repress a vague uneasy dread that he might find it out. How was it, having so little in reality to conceal, that I always did feel as if this man were finding me out? Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflection, which was blended with a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing Steerforth himself by bestowing many encomiums, meaning speeches of praise, on the absent Littimer as a most respectable fellow and a thoroughly admirable servant. Mr. Micawber, I may remark, had taken his full share of the general bow and had received it with infinite condescension. But punch, my dear Copperfield, said Mr. Micawber, tasting it like time and tide waits for no man. Ah, it is at the present moment in high flavor, my love. Will you give me your opinion, Mrs. Micawber? Pronounced it excellent. Then I will drink, said Mr. Micawber, if my friend Copperfield will permit me to take that social liberty. To the days when my friend Copperfield and myself were younger and fought our way in the world side by side. I may say of myself and Copperfield, in words we have sung together before now that we twa hae run about the braes and pud the gowns fine. So these are lines from the song Auld Lang Syne, and they mean we too have run about the hills and picked the daisies fine. In a figurative point of view, on several occasions. I am not exactly aware, said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll in his voice and the old indescribable air of saying something genteel. What gowans? Maybe. But I have no doubt that Copperfield and myself would frequently have taken a pull at them if it had been feasible. Mr. Macabre, at the then present moment, took a pull at his punch. So we all did, Traddles evidently lost in wondering at what distant time Mr. Micawber and I could have been comrades in the battle of the world. Ahem. Said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat and warming with the punch and with the fire, my dear. Another glass, Mrs. Micawber said. It must be very little, but we couldn't allow that, so it was a glassful. As we are Quite confidential here, Mr. Copperfield, said Mrs. Micawber, sipping her punch. Mr. Traddles, being a part of our domesticity, I should much like to have your opinion on Mr. Micawber's prospects for corn, said Mrs. Micawber, argumentatively, as I have repeatedly said to Mr. Micawber, may be gentlemanly, but it is not remunerative, meaning it won't make money. Commission to the extent of 2 and ninepence in a fortnight cannot, however limited our ideas, be considered remunerative. We were all agreed upon that then, said Mrs. Micawber, who prided herself on taking a clear view of things and keeping Mr. Micawber straight by her woman's wisdom, when he might otherwise go a little crooked. Then I ask myself this. If corn is not to be relied upon, what is? Are coals to be relied upon? Not at all. We have turned our attention to that experiment on the suggestion of my family, and we find it fallacious, meaning it was a mistaken belief that Cole could have made them money. Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, eyed us aside and nodded his head as much as to say that the case was very clearly put the articles of corn and coals, said Mrs. Micawber, still more argumentatively being equally out of the question. Mr. Copperfield, I naturally look round the world and say, what is there in which a person of Mr. Micawber's talent is likely to succeed? And I exclude the doing anything on commission, because commission is not a certainty. What is best suited to a person of Mr. Micawber's peculiar temperament is, I am convinced, a certainty. Traddles and I both expressed by a feeling murmur that this great discovery was no doubt true of Mr. Micawber and that it did him much credit. I will not conceal from you, my dear Mr. Copperfield, said Mrs. Micawber, that I have long felt the brewing business to be particularly adapted to Mr. Micawber. Look at Barclay and Perkins. Look at Truman, Hanbury and Buxton. It is on that extensive footing that Mr. Micawber, I know from my own experience of him, is calculated to shine and the profits, I am told, are enormous. But if Mr. Micawber cannot get into those firms which decline to answer his letters when he offers his services even in an inferior capacity, what is the use of dwelling upon that idea? None. I may have a conviction that Mr. Micawber's mannershem. Really, my dear, interposed Mr. Micawber. My love, be silent, said Mrs. Micawber, laying her brown glove on his hand. I may have a conviction, Mr. Copperfield, that Mr. Micawber's manners peculiarly qualify him for the banking business. I may argue within myself that if I had a deposit at a banking house, the manners of Mr. Micawber as representing that banking house would inspire confidence and must extend the connection. But if the various banking houses refuse to avail themselves of Mr. McCover's abilities or receive the offer of them with contumely meaning, with scorn, what is the use of dwelling upon that idea? None. As to originating a banking business, I may know that there are members of my family who, if they chose to place their money in Mr. Macawer's hands, might found an establishment of that description. But if they do not choose to place their money in Mr. McCawber's hands, which they don't, what is the use of that? Again, I contend that we are no farther advanced than we were before. I shook my head and said, not a bit. Traddles also shook his head and said, not a bit. What do I deduce from this? Mrs. Micawber went on to say, still with the same air of putting a case lucidly, what is the conclusion, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to which I am irresistibly brought, am I wrong in saying it is clear that we must live? I answered not at all, and Traddles answered not at all. And I found myself afterwards sagely adding alone that a person must either live or die. Just so, returned Mrs. Micawber. It is precisely that. And the fact is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we cannot live without something widely different from existing circumstances shortly turning up. Now I am convinced myself, and this I have pointed out to Mr. McCawver several times of late, that things cannot be expected to turn up of themselves. We must in a measure assist to turn them up. I may be wrong, but I have formed that opinion. Both Traddles and I applauded it highly. Very well, said Mrs. Micawber. Then what do I recommend? Here is Mr. Micawber with a variety of qualifications, with great talent. Really, my love, said Mr. Micawber. Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. Here is Mr. Micawber with a variety of qualifications, with great talent, I should say with genius. But that may be the partiality of a wife. Traddles and I both murmured no. And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable position or employment. Where does that responsibility rest? Clearly on society. Then I would make a fact so disgraceful known and boldly challenge society to set it right. It appears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, said Mrs. Micawber forcefully, that what Mr. Micawber has to do is to throw down the gauntlet to society and say, in effect, show me who will take that up. Let the party immediately step forward. I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was to be done. By advertising, said Mrs. Micawber. In all the papers it appears to me that what Mr. Micawber has to do in justice to himself, in justice to his family, and I will even go so far as to say in justice to society by which he has been hitherto overlooked, is to advertise in all the papers to describe himself plainly as so and so with such and such qualifications, and to put it thus. Thus, now employ me on remunerative terms and address, post paid to WM Post Office, Camden Town. This idea of Mrs. Micawber's. My dear Copperfield, said Mr. Micawber, making his shirt collar meet in front of his chin and glancing at me sideways, is in fact the leap to which I alluded when I last had the pleasure of seeing you. Advertising is rather expensive, I remarked dubiously. Exactly so, said Mrs. Micawber, preserving the same logical air. Quite true, my dear Mr. Copperfield, I have made the identical observation to Mr. Micawber. It is for that reason especially that I think Mr. Micawber ought, as I have already said, in justice to himself, in justice to his family and in justice to society, to raise a certain sum of money on a bill. Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled with his eyeglass and cast his eyes up at the ceiling and but I thought him observant of Traddles too, who was looking at the fire. If no member of my family, said Mrs. Micawber, is possessed of sufficient natural feeling to negotiate that bill, I believe there is a better business term to express what I mean. Mr. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at the ceiling, suggested discount. To discount that bill, said Mrs. Micawber. Then my opinion is that Mr. Micawber should go into the city, should be take that bill into the money market and should dispose of it for what he can get. If the individuals in the money market oblige Mr. Micawber to sustain a great sacrifice that is between themselves and their consciences, I view it steadily as an investment. I recommend Mr. Micawber, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to do the same, to regard it as an investment which is sure of return and to make up his mind to any sacrifice. I felt, but I am sure, I don't know why, that this was self denying and devoted in Mrs. Micawber and I uttered a murmur to that effect. Traddles, who took his tone from me, did likewise, still looking at the fire. I will not, said Mrs. Micawber, finishing her punch and gathering her scarf about her shoulders preparatory to her withdrawal to my bedroom. I will not protract these remarks on the subject of Mr. Micawber's pecuniary affairs at your fireside, my dear Mr. Copperfield, and in the presence of Mr. Traddles, who, though not so old a friend, is quite one of ourselves, I could not refrain from making you acquainted with the course I advise Mr. Micawber to take. I feel that the time has arrived when Mr. Micawber should exert himself and, I will add, assert himself, as it appears to me that these are the means. I am aware that I am merely a female and that a masculine judgment is usually considered more competent in the discussion of such questions. Still, I must not forget that when I lived at home with my papa and mamma my papa was in the habit of saying, Emma's form is fragile but her grasp of a subject is inferior to none, that my papa was too partial I well know, but that he was an observer of character in some degree. My duty and my reason equally forbid me to doubt with these words and resisting our entreaties, that she would grace the remaining circulation of the punch with her presence. Mrs. Micawber retired to my bedroom room and really I felt that she was a noble woman the sort of woman who might have been a Roman matron and done all manner of heroic things in times of public trouble. In the fervour of this impression I congratulated Mr. Micawber on the treasure he possessed. So did Traddles. Mr. Micawber extended his hand to each of us in succession and then covered his face with his pocket handkerchief, which I think had more snuff upon it than he was aware of. He then returned to the punch in the highest state of exhilaration. He was full of eloquence. He gave us to understand that in our children we lived again and that under the pressure of pecuniary difficulties any accession to their number was doubly welcome. He said that Mrs. Micawber had latterly had her doubts on this point but that he had dispelled them and reassured her as to her family, they were totally unworthy of her and their sentiments were utterly indifferent to him and they might I quote his own expression, go to the devil. Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy on Traddles. He said Traddles's was a character to the steady virtues of which he, Mr. Micawber, could lay no claim, but which he thanked heaven he could admire. He feelingly alluded to the young lady unknown whom Traddles had honoured with his affection and who had reciprocated that affection by honouring and blessing Traddles with her affection. Mr. Micawber pledged her. So did I. Traddles thanked us both by saying, with a simplicity and honesty I had sense enough to be quite charmed with, I am very much obliged to you indeed, and I do assure you she is the dearest girl. Mr. Micawber took an early opportunity, after that of hinting with the utmost delicacy and ceremony at the state of my affections nothing but the serious assurance of his friend Copperfield. To the contrary, he observed, could deprive him of the imperial impression that his friend Copperfield loved and was beloved. After feeling very hot and uncomfortable for some time and after a good deal of blushing, stammering and denying, I said, having my glass in my hand, well, I would give them D meaning he'll make a toast to someone with the initial D, and he's obviously referring to Dora, which so excited and gratified Mr. Micawber that he ran with a glass of punch into my bedroom in order that Mrs. Micawber might drink dark, who drank it with enthusiasm, crying from within in a shrill voice. Hear, hear. My dear Mr. Copperfield, I am delighted here. And tapping at the wall by way of applause. Our conversation afterwards took a more worldly turn. Mr. Micawber telling us that he found Camden Town inconvenient and that the first thing he contemplated doing when the advertisement should have been the cause of something satisfactory turning up was to move. He mentioned a terrace at the western end of Oxford street fronting Hyde park on which he had always had his eye but which he did not expect to attain immediately as it would require a large establishment. There would probably be an interval, he explained, in which he should content himself with the upper part of a house over some respectable place of business, say, in Piccadilly, which would be a cheerful situation for Mrs. Micawber and where, by throwing out a bow window or carrying up the roof another story or making some little alteration of that sort, they might live comfortably and reputably for a few years. Years. Whatever was reserved for him, he expressly said, or wherever his abode might be, we might rely on, there would always be a room for traddles and a knife and fork for me. We acknowledged his kindness and he begged us to forgive his having launched into these practical and businesslike details and to excuse it as natural in one who is making entirely new arrangements in life. Mrs. Micawber, tapping at the wall again to know if tea were ready broke up this particular phase of our friendly conversation. She made tea for us in a most agreeable manner and whenever I went near her in handing about the tea cups and bread and butter asked me in a whisper whether D was fair or dark or whether she was short or tall or something of that kind, which I think I liked. After tea we discussed a variety of topics before the fire and Mrs. Micawber was good enough to sing us in a small, thin, flat voice which I remembered to have considered when I first knew her. The very table beer of acoustics, the favorite ballads of the dashing White Sergeant and Little Tafflin. For both of these songs, Mrs. Micawber had been famous when she lived at home with her papa and mamma. Mr. Micawber told us that when he heard her sing the first one on the first occasion of his seeing her beneath the parental roof she had attracted his attention in an extraordinary degree, but that when it came to little Tafflin, he had resolved to win that woman or perish in the attempt. It was between 10 and 11 o' clock when Mrs. Micawber rose to replace her cap in the whitey brown paper parcel and to put on her bonnet. Mr. Micawber took the opportunity of Traddles, putting on his greatcoat, to slip a letter into my hand with a whispered request that I would read it at my leisure. I also took the opportunity of my holding a candle over the banisters to light them down. When Mr. Micawber was going first, leading Mrs. Micawber and traddles was following with the captain to detain Traddles for a moment on the top of the stairs, traddles said I, Mr. Micawber don't mean any harm, poor fellow, but if I were you, I wouldn't lend him anything. My dear Copperfield, returned Traddles smiling, I haven't got anything to lend. You've got a name, you know, said I. Oh, you call that something to lend? Returned Traddles with a thoughtful look. Certainly. Oh, said Traddles. Yes, to be sure, I am very much obliged to you, Copperfield, but I am afraid I have lent him that already. For the bill that is to be a certain investment? I inquired. No, said Traddles, not for that one. This is the first I have heard of that one. I have been thinking that he will most likely propose that one on the way home. Mine's another. I hope there will be nothing wrong about it, said I. I hope not, said Traddles. I should think not, though, because he told me only the other day that it was provided for. That was Mr. Micawber's expression. Provided for Mr. Micawber? Looking up at this juncture to where we were standing, I had only time to repeat my caution. Traddles thanked me and descended, but I was much afraid when I observed the good natured manner in which he went down with the cap in his hand and gave Mrs. Micawber his arm, that he would be carried into the money market neck and heels. Meaning he's afraid that traddles will allow Mr. McCawber to use his name as a guarantor on a loan such that if Mr. Micawber can't pay it back, Traddles will be on the hook for it. I returned to my fireside and was musing half gravely and half laughing on the character of Mr. Micawber and the old relations between us, when I heard a quick step ascending the stairs. At first I thought it was Traddles coming back for something Mrs. Micawber had left behind, mind. But as the step approached, I knew it and felt my heart beat high and the blood rush to my face, for it was Steerforth's. I was never unmindful of Agnes, and she never left that sanctuary in my thoughts, if I may call it so, where I had placed her from the first. But when he entered and stood before me with his hand out, the darkness that had fallen on him changed to light, and I felt confounded and ashamed of having doubted one I loved so heartily. I loved her none the less. I thought of her as the same benignant, gentle angel in my life. I reproached myself, not her, with having done him an injury, and I would have made him any atonement if I had known what to make and how to make it. Why, Daisy, old boy. Dumbfoundered, laughed Steerforth, shaking my hand heartily and throwing it gaily away, have I detected you in another feast, you sybarite. So a sybarite is someone who is indulgent and loves luxury. These doctors Commons fellows are the gayest men in town, I believe, and beat us sober Oxford people all to nothing. His bright glance went merrily round the room as he took the seat on the sofa opposite to me, which Mrs. Micawber had recently vacated, and stirred the fire into a blaze. I was so surprised at first, said I, giving him welcome with all the cordiality I felt that I had hardly breath to greet you with Steerforth. Well, the sight of me is good for sore eyes, as the Scotch say, replied Steerforth, and so is the sight of you, Daisy in full bloom. How are you, my bacchanal? I am very well, said I, and not at all bacchanalian to night, though I confess to another party of three, all of whom I met in the streets. Talking loud in your praise, returned Steerforth. Who's our friend in the tights? I gave him the best idea I could in a few words of Mr. Micawber. He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that gentleman, and said he was a man to know, and he must know him. But who do you suppose our other friend is? Said I in my turn. Heaven knows, said Steerforth. Not a bore, I hope. I thought he looked a little like one. Traddles, replied I triumphantly. Who's he? Asked Deerforth in his careless way. Don't you remember Traddles? Traddles in our room at Salem House. Oh, that fellow, said Steerforth, beating a lump of coal on the top of the fire with the poker. Is he as soft as ever? And where the deuce did you pick him up? I extolled Traddles in reply as highly as I could, for I felt that Steerforth rather slighted him. Steerforth, dismissing the subject with a light nod and a smile, and the remark that he would be glad to see the old fellow too, for he had always been an odd fish, inquired if I could give him anything to eat. During most of this short dialogue, when he had not been speaking in a wild, vivacious manner, he had sat idly beating on the lump of coal with the poker. I observed that he did the same thing while I was getting out the remains of the pigeon pie and so forth. Why, Daisy, here's a supper for a king. He exclaimed, starting out of his silence with a burst and taking his seat at the table. I shall do it justice, for I have come from Yarmouth. I thought you came from Oxford. I returned. Not, I, said Steerforth. I have been seafaring, better employed. Littimer was here to day to inquire for you, I remarked, and I understood him that you were at Oxford, though now I think of it, he certainly did not say so. Littimer is a greater fool than I thought him to have been inquiring for me at all, said Steerforth jovially, pouring out a glass of wine and drinking to me as to understanding him. You are a cleverer fellow than most of us, Daisy, if you can do that. That's true indeed, said I, moving my chair to the table. So you have been at Yarmouth. Steerforth interested to know all about it. Have you been there long? No, he returned. An escapade of a week or so. And how are they all? Of course little Emily is not married yet. Not yet going to be, I believe, in so many weeks or months or something or other. I have not seen much of them, by the by. He laid down his knife and fork, which he had been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his pocket. I have a letter for you. From whom? Why, from your old nurse. He returned, taking some papers out of his breast pocket. J. Steerforth, esquire. Debtor to the willing mind. That's not it, patience, and we'll find it presently. Old what's his name's in a bad way, and it's about that, I believe. Barkis, do you mean? Yes. Still feeling in his pockets and looking over their contents. It's all over with, poor Barkis, I'm afraid. I saw a little apothecary there, surgeon or whatever he is, who brought your worship into the world. He was mighty learned about the case to me, but the upshot of his opinion was that the carrier was making his last journey rather fast. Put your hand into the breast pocket of my greatcoat on the chair yonder, and I think you'll find the letter. Is it there? Here it is, said I. That's right. It was from Peggotty, something less legible than usual and brief. It informed me of her husband's hopeless state and hinted at his being a little nearer than heretofore and consequently more difficult to manage for his own comfort. It said nothing of her weariness and watching, and praised him highly. It was written with a plain, unaffected, homely piety that I knew to be genuine, and ended with my duty to my ever darling, meaning myself. While I deciphered it, Steerforth continued to eat and drink. It's a bad job, he said, when I had done, but the sun sets every day and people die every minute, and we mustn't be scared by the common lot if we fail to hold our own, because that equal foot at all men's doors was heard knocking somewhere. Every object in this world would slip from us. No. Ride on. Rough shot if need be, smooth shod if that will do. But ride on. Ride on over all obstacles and win the race. And win what race? Said I. The race that one has started in, he said. Ride on. I noticed. I remember as he paused, looking at me with his handsome head a little thrown back and his glass raised in his hand, that though the freshness of the sea wind was on his face and it was ruddy, there were traces in it made since last I saw it, as if he had applied himself to some habitual strain of the fervent energy which, when roused, was so passionately roused within him. I had it in my thoughts to remonstrate with him upon his desperate way of pursuing any fancy that he took, such as this buffeting of rough seas and braving of hard weather, for example, when my mind glanced off to the immediate subject of our conversation again and pursued that instead. I tell you what, Steerforth, said I. If your high spirits will listen to me, they are potent spirits and will do whatever you like, he answered, moving from the table to the fireside again. Then I will tell you what, Steerforth. I think I will go down and see my old nurse. It is not that I can do her any good or render her any real service, but she is so attached to me that my Visit will have as much effect on her as if I could do both. Both? She will take it so kindly that it will be a comfort and support to her. It is no great effort to make, I am sure, for such a friend as she has been to me. Wouldn't you go a day's journey if you were in my place? His face was thoughtful, and he sat considering a little before he answered in a low voice. Well, go. You can do no harm. You have just come back, said I, and it would be in vain to ask you to go with me. Quite. He returned. I am for Highgate to night. I have not seen my mother this long time, and it lies upon my conscience, for it's something to be loved as she loves her prodigal son. Bah, nonsense. You mean to go tomorrow, I suppose, he said, holding me out at arm's length with a hand on each of my shoulders. Yes, I think so. Well, then, don't go till next day. I wanted you to come and stay a few days with us. Here I am on purpose to bid you and you fly off to Yarmouth. You're a nice fellow to talk of flying off Steerforth, who are always running wild on some unknown expedition or other. Other. He looked at me for a moment without speaking, and then rejoined, still holding me as before and giving me a shake. Come, say the next day, and pass as much of tomorrow as you can with us. Who knows when we may meet again? Else? Come, say the next day. I want you to stand between Rosa Dardle and me and keep us asunder. Would you love each other too much without me? Yes, or hate, laughed Deerforth, no matter which. Come, say the next day, I said, the next day. And he put on his great coat and lighted his cigar, and set off to walk home. Finding him in this intention, I put on my own greatcoat, but did not light my own cigar, having had enough of that for one while, and walked with him as far as the open road, a dull road. Then at night he was in great spirits all the way, and when we parted and I looked after him, going so gallantly and airily homeward, I thought of his saying, ride on over all obstacles and win the race. Race? And wished for the first time that he had some worthy race to run. I was undressing in my own room when Mr. Micawber's letter tumbled on the floor. Thus reminded of it, I broke the seal and read, as it was dated, an hour and a half before dinner. I am not sure whether I have mentioned that when Mr. Micawber was at any particularly desperate crisis he used a sort of legal phraseology which he seemed to think equivalent to winding up his affairs. Sir. For I dare not say, my dear Copperfield, it is expedient that I should inform you that the undersigned is crushed. Some flickering efforts to spare you the premature knowledge of his calamitous position you may observe in him this day. But hope has sunk beneath the horizon and the undersigned is crushed. The present communication is penned with the personal range, I cannot call it the society of. Of an individual in a state closely bordering on intoxication employed by a broker. That individual is in legal possession of the premises under a distress for rent. His inventory includes not only the chattels and effects of every description belonging to the undersigned as yearly tenant of this habitation, but also Those appertaining to Mr. Thomas Traddles, lodger, a member of the honorable Society of the Inner Temple. So he's saying that his home and all his possessions and also all of Traddles possessions are going to be taken away. If any drop of gloom were wanting in the overflowing cup which is now commended in the language of an immortal writer to the lips of the undersigned, it would be found in the fact that a friendly acceptance granted to the undersigned by the before mentioned Mr. Thomas Traddles of the sum of £23, 4 shillings, 9 and a half pence is overdue and is not provided for. Also in the fact that the living responsibilities clinging to the undersigned will in the course of nature be increased by the sum of one more helpless victim whose miserable appearance may be looked for in round numbers at the expiration of a period not exceeding six lunar months from the present date. Meaning Mrs. Micawber is pregnant again. After presuming thus much, it would be a work of supererogation. Meaning saying more than was necessary to add that dust and ashes are forever scattered on the head of Wilkins Micawber. Poor Traddles. I knew enough of Mr. Micawber by this time to foresee that he might be expected to recover the blow. But my night's rest was sorely distressed by thoughts of Traddles and of the curate's daughter who was one of ten down in Devonshire and who was such a dear girl and who would wait for Traddles until she was 60 or any age that could be mentioned. Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you, please go to my website, faithkmoore.com click on contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the Show Notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the Show Notes. You can learn more about me, check out our Merch store, or become a member of the Storytime for Grown Ups online community. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favor. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded and marketed by me, so I need your help. Spread the word about the show by posting about it on social media or texting a link to your friends. Subscribe, tap those five stars and leave a positive review wherever you're listening. If you are able to support the show financially, there's a link in the Show Notes to make a donation. I would really, really appreciate it. Alright everyone, Storytime is over. To be continued.