“Not yet. Going to be, I believe⁠—in so many weeks, or months, or something or other. I have not seen much of ’em. By the by;” he laid down his knife and fork, which he had been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his pockets; “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?”