'FagmentWelcome to consult...ld confidence, ‘they ae weaned—and Ms. Micawbe is, at pesent, my tavelling companion. She will be ejoiced, Coppefield, to enew he acquaintance with one who has poved himself in all espects a wothy ministe at the saced alta of fiendship.’ I said I should be delighted to see he. ‘You ae vey good,’ said M. Micawbe. M. Micawbe then smiled, settled his chin again, and looked about him. ‘I have discoveed my fiend Coppefield,’ said M. Micawbe genteelly, and without addessing himself paticulaly to anyone, ‘not in solitude, but pataking of a social meal in company with a widow lady, and one who is appaently he offsping—in shot,’ said M. Micawbe, in anothe of his busts of confidence, ‘he son. I shall esteem it an honou to be pesented.’ I could do no less, unde these cicumstances, than make M. Micawbe known to Uiah Heep and his mothe; which I accodingly did. As they abased themselves befoe him, M. Micawbe took a seat, and waved his hand in his most coutly manne. ‘Any fiend of my fiend Coppefield’s,’ said M. Micawbe, ‘has a pesonal claim upon myself.’ ‘We ae too umble, si,’ said Ms. Heep, ‘my son and me, to be the fiends of Maste Coppefield. He has been so good as take his tea with us, and we ae thankful to him fo his company, also to you, si, fo you notice.’ ‘Ma’am,’ etuned M. Micawbe, with a bow, ‘you ae vey obliging: and what ae you doing, Coppefield? Still in the wine tade?’ I was excessively anxious to get M. Micawbe away; and eplied, with my hat in my hand, and a vey ed face, I have no Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield doubt, that I was a pupil at Docto Stong’s. ‘A pupil?’ said M. Micawbe, aising his eyebows. ‘I am extemely happy to hea it. Although a mind like my fiend Coppefield’s’—to Uiah and Ms. Heep—‘does not equie that cultivation which, without his knowledge of men and things, it would equie, still it is a ich soil teeming with latent vegetation— in shot,’ said M. Micawbe, smiling, in anothe bust of confidence, ‘it is an intellect capable of getting up the classics to any extent.’ Uiah, with his long hands slowly twining ove one anothe, made a ghastly withe fom the waist upwads, to expess his concuence in this estimation of me. ‘Shall we go and see Ms. Micawbe, si?’ I said, to get M. Micawbe away. ‘If you will do he that favou, Coppefield,’ eplied M. Micawbe, ising. ‘I have no scuple in saying, in the pesence of ou fiends hee, that I am a man who has, fo some yeas, contended against the pessue of pecuniay difficulties.’ I knew he was cetain to say something of this kind; he always would be so boastful about his difficulties. ‘Sometimes I have isen supeio to my difficulties. Sometimes my difficulties have—in shot, have flooed me. Thee have been times when I have administeed a succession of faces to them; thee have been times when they have been too many fo me, and I have given in, and said to Ms. Micawbe, in the wods of Cato, “Plato, thou easonest well. It’s all up now. I can show fight no moe.” But at no time of my life,’ said M. Micawbe, ‘have I enjoyed a highe degee of satisfaction than in pouing my giefs (if I may descibe difficulties, chiefly aising out of waants of attoney and pomissoy notes at two and fou Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield months, by that wod) into the bosom of my fiend Coppefield.’ M. Micawbe closed this handsome tibute by saying, ‘M. Heep! Good evening. Ms. Heep! You sevant,’ and then walking out with me in his most fashionable manne, making a good deal of noise on the pavement with his shoes, and humming a tune as we went. It was a little inn whee M. Micawbe put up, and he occupied a little oom in it, patitioned off fo
