“She is a curate’s daughter,” said Traddles; “one of ten, down in Devonshire. Yes!” For he saw me glance, involuntarily, at the prospect on the inkstand. “That’s the church! You come round here to the left, out of this gate,” tracing his finger along the inkstand, “and exactly where I hold this pen, there stands the house⁠—facing, you understand, towards the church.”

The delight with which he entered into these particulars, did not fully present itself to me until afterwards; for my selfish thoughts were making a ground-plan of Mr. Spenlow’s house and garden at the same moment.

“She is such a dear girl!” said Traddles; “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 sixty⁠—any age you can mention⁠—for me!”