I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after this talk, and she came to bid me good night. She kneeled down playfully by the side of the bed, and laying her chin upon her hands, and laughing, said:
“What was it they said, Davy? Tell me again. I can’t believe it.”
“ ‘Bewitching—’ ” I began.
My mother put her hands upon my lips to stop me.
“It was never bewitching,” she said, laughing. “It never could have been bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn’t!”
“Yes, it was. ‘Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield,’ ” I repeated stoutly. “And, ‘pretty.’ ”
“No, no, it was never pretty. Not pretty,” interposed my mother, laying her fingers on my lips again.
“Yes it was. ‘Pretty little widow.’ ”
“What foolish, impudent creatures!” cried my mother, laughing and covering her face. “What ridiculous men! An’t they? Davy dear—”
“Well, Ma.”
“Don’t tell Peggotty; she might be angry with them. I am dreadfully angry with them myself; but I would rather Peggotty didn’t know.”
I promised, of course; and we kissed one another over and over again, and I soon fell fast asleep.
It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the next day when Peggotty broached the striking and adventurous proposition I am about to mention; but it was probably about two months afterwards.