“It’s nothing, Trot; it’s nothing. There will be no more of it. You shall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us attend to these affairs.”
“I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,” Traddles began, “that although he would appear not to have worked to any good account for himself, he is a most untiring man when he works for other people. I never saw such a fellow. If he always goes on in the same way, he must be, virtually, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat into which he has been continually putting himself; and the distracted and impetuous manner in which he has been diving, day and night, among papers and books; to say nothing of the immense number of letters he has written me between this house and Mr. Wickfield’s, and often across the table when he has been sitting opposite, and might much more easily have spoken; is quite extraordinary.”
“Letters!” cried my aunt. “I believe he dreams in letters!”
“There’s Mr. Dick, too,” said Traddles, “has been doing wonders! As soon as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heep, whom he kept in such charge as I never saw exceeded, he began to devote himself to Mr. Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the investigations we have been making, and his real usefulness in extracting, and copying, and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stimulating to us.”
“Dick is a very remarkable man,” exclaimed my aunt; “and I always said he was. Trot, you know it.”
“I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,” pursued Traddles, at once with great delicacy and with great earnestness, “that in your absence Mr. Wickfield has considerably improved. Relieved of the incubus that had