110 David Copperfield
a comprehensive bow, and disappeared; his manner being
extremely distant, and his face extremely pale.
Traddles only smiled, and shook his head (with his hair
standing upright on the top of it), when I looked to him for
an explanation; so I took out my watch, and, as a last re-
source, counted off the five minutes. My aunt, with her own
watch in her hand, did the like. When the time was expired,
Traddles gave her his arm; and we all went out together to
the old house, without saying one word on the way.
We found Mr. Micawber at his desk, in the turret office
on the ground floor, either writing, or pretending to write,
hard. The large office-ruler was stuck into his waistcoat,
and was 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 former office, said, in a sonorous voice:
‘Miss Trotwood, Mr. David Copperfield, Mr. Thomas
Traddles, and Mr. Dixon!’