‘A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield?’ she cried, after a pause, and still keeping the same look-out. ‘Aye, aye?’

‘No,’ said Steerforth, before I could reply. ‘Nothing of the sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used — or I am much mistaken — to have a great admiration for her.’

‘Why, hasn’t he now?’ returned Miss Mowcher.

‘Is he fickle? Oh, for shame! Did he sip every flower, and change every hour, until Polly his passion requited? — Is her name Polly?’

The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me with this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted me for a moment.

‘No, Miss Mowcher,’