“Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?” said Steerforth.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Where does he sleep? What’s his number? You know what I mean,” said Steerforth.

“Well, sir,” said the waiter, with an apologetic air. “ Mr. Copperfield is at present in forty-four, sir.”

“And what the devil do you mean,” retorted Steerforth, “by putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?”