At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and might have lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind, where the play was still running high, his former protection of me appeared so deserving of my gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously, that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating heart, and said:

‘Steerforth! won’t you speak to me?’

He looked at me — just as he used to look, sometimes — but I saw no recognition in his face.

‘You don’t remember me, I am afraid,’ said I.

‘My God!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘It’s little Copperfield!’