“You’ll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,” said I, “if you have not done so already; and they will have good reason to be proud of you.”
“ I take a degree!” cried Steerforth. “Not I! my dear Daisy—will you mind my calling you Daisy?”
“Not at all!” said I.
“That’s a good fellow! My dear Daisy,” said Steerforth, laughing. “I have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find that I am heavy company enough for myself as I am.”
“But the fame—” I was beginning.
“You romantic Daisy!” said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily: “why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There’s fame for him, and he’s welcome to it.”
I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad to change the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for Steerforth could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and lightness that were his own.
Lunch succeeded to our sightseeing, and the short winter day wore away so fast, that it was dusk when the stagecoach stopped with us at an old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill. An elderly lady, though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and a handsome face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting Steerforth as “My dearest James,” folded him in her arms. To this lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.
It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly. From the windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great