“You can, if you like, you know,” said Steerforth. “Say the word.”
“No, thank you, sir,” I repeated.
“Perhaps you’d like to spend a couple of shillings or so, in a bottle of currant wine by and by, up in the bedroom?” said Steerforth. “You belong to my bedroom, I find.”
It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said, Yes, I should like that.
“Very good,” said Steerforth. “You’ll be glad to spend another shilling or so, in almond cakes, I dare say?”
I said, Yes, I should like that, too.
“And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in fruit, eh?” said Steerforth. “I say, young Copperfield, you’re going it!”
I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in my mind, too.
“Well!” said Steerforth. “We must make it stretch as far as we can; that’s all. I’ll do the best in my power for you. I can go out when I like, and I’ll smuggle the prog in.” With these words he put the money in his pocket, and kindly told me not to make myself uneasy; he would take care it should be all right. He was as good as his word, if that were all right which I had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong—for I feared it was a waste of my mother’s two half-crowns—though I had preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped in: which was a precious saving. When we went upstairs to bed, he produced the whole seven shillings’ worth, and laid it out on my bed in the moonlight, saying:
“There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread you’ve got.”
I couldn’t think of doing the honours of the feast, at my time of life, while he was by; my hand shook at the very thought of it. I begged him