There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.
“Dodson and Fogg,” he repeated, mechanically.
“Bardell and Pickwick,” said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.
“Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,” murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction.
“It’s a conspiracy,” said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; “a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;—she hasn’t the heart to do it;—she hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous—ridiculous.”
“Of her heart,” said Wardle, with a smile, “you should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.”
“It’s a vile attempt to extort money,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“I hope it is,” said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.
“Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?” continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. “Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here——”