“No,” said Steerforth, before I could reply. “Nothing of the sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used—or I am much mistaken—to have a great admiration for her.”
“Why, hasn’t he now?” returned Miss Mowcher. “Is he fickle? Oh, for shame! Did he sip every flower, and change every hour, until Polly his passion requited?—Is her name Polly?”
The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me with this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted me for a moment.
“No, Miss Mowcher,” I replied. “Her name is Emily.”
“Aha?” she cried exactly as before. “Umph? What a rattle I am! Mr. Copperfield, ain’t I volatile?”
Her tone and look implied something that was not agreeable to me in connection with the subject. So I said, in a graver manner than any of us had yet assumed: “She is as virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged to be married to a most worthy and deserving man in her own station of life. I esteem her for her good sense, as much as I admire her