“Gracious Heaven!” said the middle-aged lady, “what’s that?”
“It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, from behind the curtains.
“A gentleman!” said the lady with a terrific scream.
“It’s all over!” thought Mr. Pickwick.
“A strange man!” shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.
“Ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his desperation, “Ma’am!”
Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s night-cap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.
“Wretch!” said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, “what do you want here?”
“Nothing, ma’am; nothing whatever, ma’am;” said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly.
“Nothing!” said the lady, looking up.