I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had looked more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and very earnest when he now replied with a burning face, “Upon my word and honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am a living man, I’ll act according to your wish!  I’ll never go another step in opposition to it.  I’ll take my oath to it if it will be any satisfaction to you.  In what I promise at this present time touching the matters now in question,” continued Mr. Guppy rapidly, as if he were repeating a familiar form of words, “I speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so—­”

“I am quite satisfied,” said I, rising at this point, “and I thank you very much.  Caddy, my dear, I am ready!”

Mr. Guppy’s mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipient of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave.  Mr. Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there, staring.

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently, “Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend upon me!”

“I do,” said I, “quite confidently.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, going with one leg and staying with the other, “but this lady being present—­your own witness—­it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions.”

“Well, Caddy,” said I, turning to her, “perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any engagement—­”

“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” suggested Mr. Guppy.

“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” said I, “between this gentleman—­”

“William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex,” he murmured.

“Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Mr. Guppy.  “Very full—­er—­excuse me—­ lady’s name, Christian and surname both?”

I gave them.

“Married woman, I believe?” said Mr. Guppy.  “Married woman.  Thank you.  Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn, within the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford Street.  Much obliged.”

He ran home and came running back again.

“Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly terminated some time back,” said Mr. Guppy to me forlornly and despondently, “but it couldn’t be.  Now could it, you know!  I only put it to you.”

I replied it certainly could not.  The subject did not admit of a doubt.  He thanked me and ran to his mother’s again—­and back again.