“I came here by the Canterbury coach, to-day. I have been adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished my education there. How do you come to be here, Steerforth?”
“Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,” he returned; “that is to say, I get bored to death down there, periodically—and I am on my way now to my mother’s. You’re a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just what you used to be, now I look at you! Not altered in the least!”
“I knew you immediately,” I said; “but you are more easily remembered.”
He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair, and said gaily:
“Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of town; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house
tedious enough, I remained here to-night instead of going on. I have not been in town half-a-dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away at the play.”
“I have been at the play, too,” said I. “At Covent Garden. What a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!”
Steerforth laughed heartily.
—“My dear young Davy,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, “you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher than you are! I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there never was a more miserable business.—Holloa, you sir!”
This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.