“Someone, Trotwood,” said Agnes, laughing, and holding up her finger.
“No, Agnes, upon my word! There is a lady, certainly, at Mrs. Steerforth’s house, who is very clever, and whom I like to talk to—Miss Dartle—but I don’t adore her.”
Agnes laughed again at her own penetration, and told me that if I were faithful to her in my confidence she thought she should keep a little register of my violent attachments, with the date, duration, and termination of each, like the table of the reigns of the kings and queens, in the History of England. Then she asked me if I had seen Uriah.
“Uriah Heep?” said I. “No. Is he in London?”
“He comes to the office downstairs, every day,” returned Agnes. “He was in London a week before me. I am afraid on disagreeable business, Trotwood.”
“On some business that makes you uneasy, Agnes, I see,” said I. “What can that be?”
Agnes laid aside her work, and replied, folding her hands upon one another, and looking pensively at me out of those beautiful soft eyes of hers:
“I believe he is going to enter into partnership with papa.”
“What? Uriah? That mean, fawning fellow, worm himself into such promotion!” I cried, indignantly. “Have you made no remonstrance about it, Agnes? Consider what a connection it is likely to be. You must speak out. You must not allow your father to take such a mad step. You must prevent it, Agnes, while there’s time.”
Still looking at me, Agnes shook her head while I was speaking, with a faint smile at my warmth: and then replied: