I recollect well how indignantly my heart beat, as I saw his crafty face, with the appropriately red light of the fire upon it, preparing for something else.
“Master Copperfield,” he began—“but am I keeping you up?”
“You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed late.”
“Thank you, Master Copperfield! I have risen from my ’umble station since first you used to address me, it is true; but I am ’umble still. I hope I never shall be otherwise than ’umble. You will not think the worse of my ’umbleness, if I make a little confidence to you, Master Copperfield? Will you?”
“Oh no,” said I, with an effort.
“Thank you!” He took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began wiping the palms of his hands. “Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield—”
“Well, Uriah?”
“Oh, how pleasant to be called Uriah, spontaneously!” he cried; and gave himself a jerk, like a convulsive fish. “You thought her looking very beautiful tonight, Master Copperfield?”
“I thought her looking as she always does: superior, in all respects, to everyone around her,” I returned.
“Oh, thank you! It’s so true!” he cried. “Oh, thank you very much for that!”
“Not at all,” I said, loftily. “There is no reason why you should thank me.”
“Why that, Master Copperfield,” said Uriah, “is, in fact, the confidence that I am going to take the liberty of reposing. ’Umble as I