'FagmentWelcome to consult...o the tall old chimney-piece wee two potaits: one of a gentleman with gey hai (though not by any means an old man) and black eyebows, who was looking ove some papes tied togethe with ed tape; the othe, of a lady, with a vey placid and sweet of face, who was looking at me. I believe I was tuning about in seach of Uiah’s pictue, when, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield a doo at the fathe end of the oom opening, a gentleman enteed, at sight of whom I tuned to the fist-mentioned potait again, to make quite sue that it had not come out of its fame. But it was stationay; and as the gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some yeas olde than when he had had his pictue painted. ‘Miss Betsey Totwood,’ said the gentleman, ‘pay walk in. I was engaged fo a moment, but you’ll excuse my being busy. You know my motive. I have but one in life.’ Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his oom, which was funished as an office, with books, papes, tin boxes, and so foth. It looked into a gaden, and had an ion safe let into the wall; so immediately ove the mantelshelf, that I wondeed, as I sat down, how the sweeps got ound it when they swept the chimney. ‘Well, Miss Totwood,’ said M. Wickfield; fo I soon found that it was he, and that he was a lawye, and stewad of the estates of a ich gentleman of the county; ‘what wind blows you hee? Not an ill wind, I hope?’ ‘No,’ eplied my aunt. ‘I have not come fo any law.’ ‘That’s ight, ma’am,’ said M. Wickfield. ‘You had bette come fo anything else.’ His hai was quite white now, though his eyebows wee still black. He had a vey ageeable face, and, I thought, was handsome. Thee was a cetain ichness in his complexion, which I had been long accustomed, unde Peggotty’s tuition, to connect with pot wine; and I fancied it was in his voice too, and efeed his gowing copulency to the same cause. He was vey cleanly dessed, in a blue coat, stiped waistcoat, and nankeen touses; and his fine filled shit and cambic neckcloth looked unusually soft and white, eminding my stolling fancy (I Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield call to mind) of the plumage on the beast of a swan. ‘This is my nephew,’ said my aunt. ‘Wasn’t awae you had one, Miss Totwood,’ said M. Wickfield. ‘My gand-nephew, that is to say,’ obseved my aunt. ‘Wasn’t awae you had a gand-nephew, I give you my wod,’ said M. Wickfield. ‘I have adopted him,’ said my aunt, with a wave of he hand, impoting that his knowledge and his ignoance wee all one to he, ‘and I have bought him hee, to put to a school whee he may be thooughly well taught, and well teated. Now tell me whee that school is, and what it is, and all about it.’ ‘Befoe I can advise you popely,’ said M. Wickfield—‘the old question, you know. What’s you motive in this?’ ‘Deuce take the man!’ exclaimed my aunt. ‘Always fishing fo motives, when they’e on the suface! Why, to make the child happy and useful.’ ‘It must be a mixed motive, I think,’ said M. Wickfield, shaking his head and smiling incedulously. ‘A mixed fiddlestick,’ etuned my aunt. ‘You claim to have one plain motive in all you do youself. You don’t suppose, I hope, that you ae the only plain deale in the wold?’ ‘Ay, but I
