“And how,” said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome⁠—“how is Tupman?”

Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy reflection.

“Snodgrass,” said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, “how is our friend⁠—he is not ill?”

“No,” replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eyelid, like a raindrop on a window-frame⁠—“no; he is not ill.”

Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.