“No no, it was never pretty. Not pretty,” interposed my mother, laying her fingers on my lips again.
“Yes it was. ‘Pretty little widow.’”
“What foolish, impudent creatures!” cried my mother, laughing and covering her face. “What ridiculous men! An’t they? Davy dear——”
“Well, Ma.”
“Don’t tell Peggotty; she might be angry with them. I am dreadfully angry with them myself; but I would rather Peggotty didn’t know.”
I promised, of course; and we kissed one another over and over again, and I soon fell fast asleep.
It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the next day when Peggotty broached the striking and adventurous proposition I am about to mention; but it was probably about two months afterwards.
We were sitting as before, one evening (when my mother was out as before), in company with the stocking and the yard measure, and the bit of wax, and the box with Saint Paul’s on the lid, and the crocodile book, when Peggotty, after looking at me several times, and opening her mouth as if she were going to speak, without doing it—which I thought was merely gaping, or I should have been rather alarmed—said coaxingly:
“Master Davy, how should you like to go along with me and spend a fortnight at my brother’s at Yarmouth? Wouldn’t that be a treat?”
“Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty?” I enquired, provisionally.