He had abundance of time to ruminate on this discovery, for Tim Linkinwater was absent during the greater part of an hour, during the whole of which time Nicholas thought of nothing but the young lady, and her exceeding beauty, and what could possibly have brought her there, and why they made such a mystery of it. The more he thought of all this, the more it perplexed him, and the more anxious he became to know who and what she was. ‘I should have known her among ten thousand,’ thought Nicholas. And with that he walked up and down the room, and recalling her face and figure (of which he had a peculiarly vivid remembrance), discarded all other subjects of reflection and dwelt upon that alone.
At length Tim Linkinwater came back—provokingly cool, and with papers in his hand, and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had happened.
‘Is she quite recovered?’ said Nicholas, impetuously.
‘Who?’ returned Tim Linkinwater.
‘Who!’ repeated Nicholas. ‘The young lady.’
‘What do you make, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Tim, taking his pen out of his mouth, ‘what do you make of four hundred and twenty-seven times three thousand two hundred and thirty-eight?’
‘Nay,’ returned Nicholas, ‘what do you make of my question first? I asked you—’
‘About the young lady,’ said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his spectacles. ‘To be sure. Yes. Oh! she’s very well.’
‘Very well, is she?’ returned Nicholas.
‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Linkinwater, gravely.