“I do consider the young ’ooman, sir,” said Sam. “I have considered the young ’ooman. I’ve spoke to her. I’ve told her how I’m sitivated; she’s ready to wait till I’m ready, and I believe she vill. If she don’t, she’s not the young ’ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith readiness. You’ve know’d me afore, sir. My mind’s made up, and nothin’ can ever alter it.”
Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from the greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.
While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick’s room, a little old gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter carrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and after securing a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs. Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter, of course, responded in the affirmative.
“Is she alone?” inquired the little old gentleman.
“I believe she is, sir,” replied the waiter; “I can call her own maid, sir, if you——”
“No, I don’t want her,” said the old gentleman, quickly. “Show me to her room without announcing me.”
“Eh, sir?” said the waiter.
“Are you deaf?” inquired the little old gentleman.
“No, sir.”
“Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?”