“What is the name of the house?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.”

“I know it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.”

Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand.

“You’re a fine fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, “and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember⁠—eleven o’clock.”