over the banisters, he swung
into a trot, and came up panting as if he had run himself into a state
of exhaustion.

'T. Copperfield, Esquire,' said the ticket-porter, touching his hat with
his little cane.

I could scarcely lay claim to the name: I was so disturbed by the
conviction that the letter came from Agnes. However, I told him I was T.
Copperfield, Esquire, and he believed it, and gave me the letter, which
he said required an answer. I shut him out on the landing to wait for
the answer, and went into my chambers again, in such a nervous state
that I was fain to lay the letter down on my breakfast table, and
familiarize myself with the outside of it a little, before I could
resolve to break the seal.

I found, when I did open it, that it was a very kind note, containing
no reference to my condition at the theatre. All it said was, 'My dear
Trotwood. I am staying at the house of papa's agent, Mr. Waterbrook, in
Ely Place, Holborn. Will you come and see me today, at any time you like
to appoint? Ever yours affectionately, AGNES.'

It took me such a long time to write an answer at all to my
satisfaction, that I don't know what the ticket-porter can have
thought, unless he thought I was learning to write. I must have written
half-a-dozen answers at least. I began one, 'How can I ever hope,
my dear Agnes, to efface from your remembrance the disgusting
impression'--there I didn't like it, and then I tore it up. I began
another, 'Shakespeare has observed, my dear Agnes, how strange it is
that a man should put an enemy into his mouth'--that reminded me of
Markham, and it got no farther. I even tried poetry. I began one note,
in a six-syllable line, 'Oh, do not remember'--but that associated
itself with the fifth of November, and became an absurdity. After many
attempts, I wrote, 'My dear Agnes. Your letter is like you, and what
could I say of it that would be higher praise than that? I will come at
four o'clock. Affectionately and sorrowfully, T.C.' With this missive
(which I was in twenty minds at once about recalling, as soon as it was
out of my hands), the ticket-porter at last departed.

If the day were half as tremendous to any other professional gentleman
in Doctors' Commons as it was to me, I sincerely believe he made some
expiation for his share in that rotten old ecclesiastical cheese.
Although I left the office at half past three, and was prowling about
the place of appointment within a few minutes after