“My dear Copperfield,” cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door, in spite of all these obstacles, “how do you do?”
“My dear Traddles,” said I, “I am delighted to see you at last, and very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged——”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Traddles, “of course. Yours lives in London, I think.”
“What did you say?”
“She—excuse me—Miss D., you know,” said Traddles, colouring in his great delicacy, “lives in London, I believe?”
“Oh yes. Near London.”
“Mine, perhaps you recollect,” said Traddles, with a serious look, “lives down in Devonshire—one of ten. Consequently, I am not so much engaged as you—in that sense.”
“I wonder you can bear,” I returned, “to see her so seldom.”
“Hah!” said Traddles, thoughtfully. “It does seem a wonder. I suppose it is, Copperfield, because there’s no help for it?”
“I suppose so,” I replied, with a smile, and not without a blush. “And because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.”