not so well concealed but that a foot or more of that instrument protruded from his bosom, like a new kind of shirt-frill.

As it appeared to me that I was expected to speak, I said aloud:

‘How do you do, Mr. Micawber?’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, gravely, ‘I hope I see you well?’

‘Is Miss Wickfield at home?’ said I.

‘Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bed, sir, of a rheumatic fever,’ he returned; ‘but Miss Wickfield, I have no doubt, will be happy to see old friends. Will you walk in, sir?’

He preceded us to the dining-room — the first room I had entered in that house — and flinging open the door of Mr. Wickfield’s