“You are very good, sir,” I murmured, anticipating a concession.
“Not at all. Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Spenlow. “At the same time, I was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered—if I had not a partner— Mr. Jorkins—”
My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.
“Do you think, sir,” said I, “if I were to mention it to Mr. Jorkins—”
Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. “Heaven forbid, Copperfield,” he replied, “that I should do any man an injustice: still less, Mr. Jorkins. But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr. Jorkins is not a man to respond to a proposition of this peculiar nature. Mr. Jorkins is very difficult to move from the beaten track. You know what he is!”
I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had originally been alone in the business, and now lived by himself in a house near Montagu Square, which was fearfully in want of painting; that he came very late of a day, and went away very early; that he never appeared to be consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy little black-hole of his own upstairs, where no business was ever done, and where there was a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his desk, unsoiled by ink, and reported to be twenty years of age.
“Would you object to my mentioning it to him, sir?” I asked.