“My dear,” returned Tom, in a delighted state, “why not? What do you say to that writing, Copperfield?”

“It’s extraordinarily legal and formal,” said I. “I don’t think I ever saw such a stiff hand.”

“Not like a lady’s hand, is it?” said Traddles.

“A lady’s!” I repeated. “Bricks and mortar are more like a lady’s hand!”

Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me that it was Sophy’s writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he would need a copying-clerk soon, and she would be that clerk; that she had acquired this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off⁠—I forget how many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused by my being told all this, and said that when “Tom” was made a judge he wouldn’t be so ready to proclaim it. Which “Tom” denied; averring that he should always be equally proud of it, under all circumstances.

“What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my dear Traddles!” said I, when she had gone away, laughing.