Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant friction of his lawyer’s-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as I look around me:
“If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do!”
“You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?”
“When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town talk then !”
“At all events,” says Traddles, “if I ever am one—”
“Why, you know you will be.”
“Well, my dear Copperfield, when I am one, I shall tell the story, as I said I would.”
We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with Traddles. It is Sophy’s birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.
“I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most at heart. There’s the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably; there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler’s decease; and all of them happy.”
“Except—” I suggest.