David Copperfieldployed.’
‘Littimer was here today, to inquire for you,’ I remarked,
‘and I understood him that you were at Oxford; though, now
I think of it, he certainly did not say so.’
‘Littimer is a greater fool than I thought him, to have been
inquiring for me at all,’ said Steerforth, jovially pouring out
a glass of wine, and drinking to me. ‘As to understanding
him, you are a cleverer fellow than most of us, Daisy, if you
can do that.’
‘That’s true, indeed,’ said I, moving my chair to the ta-
ble. ‘So you have been at Yarmouth, Steerforth!’ interested
to know all about it. ‘Have you been there long?’
‘No,’ he returned. ‘An escapade of a week or so.’
‘And how are they all? Of course, little Emily is not mar-
ried yet?’
‘Not yet. Going to be, I believe - in so many weeks, or
months, or something or other. I have not seen much of ‘em.
By the by’; he laid down his knife and fork, which he had
been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his
pockets; ‘I have a letter for you.’
‘From whom?’
‘Why, from your old nurse,’ he returned, taking some pa-
pers out of his breast pocket. ‘‘J. Steerforth, Esquire, debtor,
to The Willing Mind”; that’s not it. Patience, and we’ll find
it presently. Old what’s-his-name’s in a bad way, and it’s
about that, I believe.’
‘Barkis, do you mean?’
‘Yes!’ still feeling in his pockets, and looking over their
contents: ‘it’s all over with poor Barkis, I am afraid. I saw