“My good lady,” returned my guardian, “it is hardly reasonable to ask me to get out of my own room.”

“I don’t care for that,” said Mrs. Guppy.  “Get out with you.  If we ain’t good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good enough.  Go along and find ’em.”

I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy’s power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest offence.

“Go along and find somebody that’s good enough for you,” repeated Mrs. Guppy.  “Get out!” Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Guppy’s mother so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting out.  “Why don’t you get out?” said Mrs. Guppy.  “What are you stopping here for?”

“Mother,” interposed her son, always getting before her and pushing her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, “Will you hold your tongue?”

“No, William,” she returned, “I won’t!  Not unless he gets out, I won’t!”

However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Guppy’s mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very much against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and above all things that we should get out.

CHAPTER LXV

Beginning the World

The term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation from Mr. Kenge that the cause would come on in two days.  As I had sufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan and I agreed to go down to the court that morning.  Richard was extremely agitated and was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the mind, that my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported.  But she looked forward—­a very little way now—­to the help that was to come to her, and never drooped.

It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on.  It had come on there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not divest myself of an idea that it might lead to some result now.  We left home directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time and walked down there through the lively streets—­so happily and strangely it seemed!—­together.

As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard and Ada, I heard somebody calling “Esther!  My dear Esther!  Esther!” And there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the window of a little carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she had so many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards’ distance.  I had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go and see her.  Of course we turned back, and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers, and was so determined to squeeze