I glanced at Richard on the termination of these hopeless proceedings and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome young face.  “It can’t last for ever, Dame Durden.  Better luck next time!” was all he said.

I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers and arranging them for Mr. Kenge; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, which rendered me desirous to get out of the court.  Richard had given me his arm and was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone,” said he in a whisper, “and Miss Summerson’s also, but there’s a lady here, a friend of mine, who knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands.”  As he spoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shape from my remembrance, Mrs. Rachael of my godmother’s house.

“How do you do, Esther?” said she.  “Do you recollect me?”

I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little altered.

“I wonder you remember those times, Esther,” she returned with her old asperity.  “They are changed now.  Well!  I am glad to see you, and glad you are not too proud to know me.”  But indeed she seemed disappointed that I was not.

“Proud, Mrs. Rachael!” I remonstrated.

“I am married, Esther,” she returned, coldly correcting me, “and am Mrs. Chadband.  Well!  I wish you good day, and I hope you’ll do well.”

Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved a sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael’s way through the confused little crowd of people coming in and going out, which we were in the midst of and which the change in the business had brought together.  Richard and I were making our way through it, and I was yet in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition when I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person than Mr. George.  He made nothing of the people about him as he tramped on, staring over their heads into the body of the court.

“George!” said Richard as I called his attention to him.

“You are well met, sir,” he returned.  “And you, miss.  Could you point a person out for me, I want?  I don’t understand these places.”

Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped when we were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.

“There’s a little cracked old woman,” he began, “that—­”

I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me, having kept beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my confusion) by whispering in their ears, “Hush!  Fitz Jarndyce on my left!”

“Hem!” said Mr. George.  “You remember, miss, that we passed some conversation on a certain man this morning?  Gridley,” in a low whisper behind his hand.

“Yes,” said I.

“He is hiding at my place.  I couldn’t mention it.  Hadn’t his authority.  He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her.  He says they can feel for one another, and she has been almost as good as a friend to him here.  I came down to look for her, for when I sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear the roll of the muffled drums.”