Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby.  Really when he used to come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice how she was, and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt to say anything more, I liked him very much.  If he found me bustling about doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as if with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got any further.  His sole occupation was to sit with his head against the wall, looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite divest my mind of a fancy that they understood one another.

I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because he was now Caddy’s regular attendant.  She soon began to improve under his care, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the pains he took that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure.  I saw a good deal of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not so much as might be supposed, for knowing Caddy to be safe in his hands, I often slipped home at about the hours when he was expected.  We frequently met, notwithstanding.  I was quite reconciled to myself now, but I still felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still was sorry for me I believed.  He helped Mr. Badger in his professional engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet no settled projects for the future.

It was when Caddy began to recover that I began to notice a change in my dear girl.  I cannot say how it first presented itself to me, because I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing in themselves and only became something when they were pieced together.  But I made it out, by putting them together, that Ada was not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be.  Her tenderness for me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a moment doubt that; but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.

Now, I could not understand this, and I was so anxious for the happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set me thinking often.  At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed this something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my head that she was a little grieved—­for me—­by what I had told her about Bleak House.

How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don’t know.  I had no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so.  I was not grieved for myself:  I was quite contented and quite happy.  Still, that Ada might be thinking—­for me, though I had abandoned all such thoughts—­of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so easy to believe that I believed it.