“Mrs. Heep is here, sir,” said Traddles, returning with that worthy mother of a worthy son. “I have taken the liberty of making myself known to her.”
“Who are you to make yourself known?” retorted Uriah. “And what do you want here?”
“I am the agent and friend of Mr. Wickfield, sir,” said Traddles, in a composed business-like way. “And I have a power of attorney from him in my pocket, to act for him in all matters.”
“The old ass has drunk himself into a state of dotage,” said Uriah, turning uglier than before, “and it has been got from him by fraud!”
“Something has been got from him by fraud, I know,” returned Traddles quietly; “and so do you, Mr. Heep. We will refer that question, if you please, to Mr. Micawber.”
“Ury—!” Mrs. Heep began, with an anxious gesture.
“You hold your tongue, mother,” he returned; “least said, soonest mended.”
“But my Ury—.”
“Will you hold your tongue, mother, and leave it to me?”
Though I had long known that his servility was false, and all his pretences knavish and hollow, I had had no adequate conception of the extent of his hypocrisy, until I now saw him with his mask off. The suddenness with which he dropped it, when he perceived that it was useless to him; the malice, insolence, and hatred, he revealed; the leer with which he exulted, even at this moment, in the evil he had done—all this time being desperate too, and at his wits’ end for the means of getting the better of us—though perfectly consistent with the