going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty’s family, I reminded him of the boatman whom he had seen at school.
“Oh! That bluff fellow!” said Steerforth. “He had a son with him, hadn’t he?”
“No. That was his nephew,” I replied; “whom he adopted, though, as a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a daughter. In short, his house—or rather his boat, for he lives in one, on dry land—is full of people who are objects of his generosity and kindness. You would be delighted to see that household.”
“Should I?” said Steerforth. “Well, I think I should. I must see what can be done. It would be worth a journey (not to mention the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy), to see that sort of people together, and to make one of ’em.”
My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in reference to the tone in which he had spoken of “that sort of people,” that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in again.
“Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?” she said.
“Are they what? And are who what?” said Steerforth.
“That sort of people. Are they really animals and clods, and beings of another order? I want to know so much.”
“Why, there’s a pretty wide separation between them and us,” said Steerforth, with indifference. “They are not to be expected to be as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shocked, or hurt easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say—some people contend for that, at least; and I am sure I don’t want to contradict them—but they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.”