at Mr. Peggotty when he stood before her; and he looked quite as steadfastly at her. Rosa Dartle’s keen glance comprehended all of us. For some moments not a word was spoken.
She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a low voice, “I shouldn’t feel it nat’ral, ma’am, to sit down in this house. I’d sooner stand.” And this was succeeded by another silence, which she broke thus:
“I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What do you want of me? What do you ask me to do?”
He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily’s letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her. “Please to read that, ma’am. That’s my niece’s hand!”
She read it, in the same stately and impassive way—untouched by its contents, as far as I could see—and returned it to him.
“ ‘Unless he brings me back a lady,’ ” said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out that part with his finger. “I come to know, ma’am, whether he will keep his wured?”
“No,” she returned.
“Why not?” said Mr. Peggotty.
“It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to know that she is far below him.”
“Raise her up!” said Mr. Peggotty.
“She is uneducated and ignorant.”
“Maybe she’s not; maybe she is,” said Mr. Peggotty. “ I think not, ma’am; but I’m no judge of them things. Teach her better!”