“So, Mr. Wickfield,” said I, at last, “who is worth five hundred of you⁠—or me”; for my life, I think, I could not have helped dividing that part of the sentence with an awkward jerk; “has been imprudent, has he, Mr. Heep?”

“Oh, very imprudent indeed, Master Copperfield,” returned Uriah, sighing modestly. “Oh, very much so! But I wish you’d call me Uriah, if you please. It’s like old times.”

“Well! Uriah,” said I, bolting it out with some difficulty.

“Thank you,” he returned, with fervour. “Thank you, Master Copperfield! It’s like the blowing of old breezes or the ringing of old bellses to hear you say Uriah. I beg your pardon. Was I making any observation?”