“You may think what you like,” said I, still in a towering rage. “If it is not true, so much the worthier you.”
“And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!” he rejoined.
I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going out to bed, when he came between me and the door.
“Copperfield,” he said, “there must be two parties to a quarrel. I won’t be one.”
“You may go to the devil!” said I.
“Don’t say that!” he replied. “I know you’ll be sorry afterwards. How can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad spirit? But I forgive you.”
“You forgive me!” I repeated disdainfully.
“I do, and you can’t help yourself,” replied Uriah. “To think of your going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! But there can’t be a quarrel without two parties, and I won’t be one. I will be a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you’ve got to expect.”
The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not be disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper; though my passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from him what I always had expected, and had never yet been disappointed in, I opened the door upon him, as if he had been a great walnut put there to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he slept out of the house too, at his mother’s lodging; and before I had gone many hundred yards, came up with me.
“You know, Copperfield,” he said, in my ear (I did not turn my head), “you’re in quite a wrong position;” which I felt to be true, and that made me chafe the more; “you can’t make this a brave thing,