We went to my aunt’s house rather than to mine, because of Dora’s not being well. My aunt presented herself on being sent for, and welcomed Mr. Micawber with gracious cordiality. Mr. Micawber kissed her hand, retired to the window, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, had a mental wrestle with himself.
Mr. Dick was at home. He was by nature so exceedingly compassionate of anyone who seemed to be ill at ease, and was so quick to find any such person out, that he shook hands with Mr. Micawber, at least half-a-dozen times in five minutes. To Mr. Micawber, in his trouble, this warmth, on the part of a stranger, was so extremely touching, that he could only say, on the occasion of each successive shake, “My dear sir, you overpower me!” Which gratified Mr. Dick so much, that he went at it again with greater vigour than before.
“The friendliness of this gentleman,” said Mr. Micawber to my aunt, “if you will allow me, ma’am, to cull a figure of speech from the vocabulary of our coarser national sports—floors me. To a man who is struggling with a complicated burden of perplexity and disquiet, such a reception is trying, I assure you.”
“My friend Mr. Dick,” replied my aunt proudly, “is not a common man.”
“That I am convinced of,” said Mr. Micawber. “My dear sir!” for Mr. Dick was shaking hands with him again; “I am deeply sensible of your cordiality!”
“How do you find yourself?” said Mr. Dick, with an anxious look.
“Indifferent, my dear sir,” returned Mr. Micawber, sighing.
“You must keep up your spirits,” said Mr. Dick, “and make yourself as comfortable as possible.”