ways punctual at
the office; at the Doctor's too: and I really did work, as the common
expression is, like a cart-horse. One day, when I went to the Commons as
usual, I found Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and
talking to himself. As he was in the habit of complaining of pains in
his head--he had naturally a short throat, and I do seriously believe
he over-starched himself--I was at first alarmed by the idea that he was
not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.

Instead of returning my 'Good morning' with his usual affability, he
looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly requested me
to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in those days, had
a door opening into the Commons, just within the little archway in St.
Paul's Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with a
warm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions were breaking out into
buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before, on account of the
narrowness of the way, I observed that he carried his head with a lofty
air that was particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he
had found out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I could
hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him
into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by
a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers
sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and
flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind,
are now obsolete.

Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely rigid.
Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and stood on the
hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.

'Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, what you
have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.'

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my
childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in sympathy
with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it--opening her mouth a little
at the same time--and produced my last letter to Dora, teeming with
expressions of devoted affection.

'I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?' said Mr. Spenlow.

I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I said,
'It is, sir!'

'If I am not mistaken,' said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought a
pa