We had made some pale efforts in the beginning to applaud Mr. Wopsle; but they were too hopeless to be persisted in.  Therefore we had sat, feeling keenly for him, but laughing, nevertheless, from ear to ear.  I laughed in spite of myself all the time, the whole thing was so droll; and yet I had a latent impression that there was something decidedly fine in Mr. Wopsle’s elocution — not for old associations’ sake, I am afraid, but because it was very slow, very dreary, very up-hill and down-hill, and very unlike any way in which any man in any natural circumstances of life or death ever expressed himself about anything.  When the tragedy was over, and he had been called for and hooted, I said to Herbert, “Let us go at once, or perhaps we shall meet him.”

We made all the haste we could down-stairs, but we were not quick enough either.  Standing at the door was a Jewish man with an unnatural heavy smear of eyebrow, who caught my eyes as we advanced, and said, when we came up with him: 

“Mr. Pip and friend?”

Identity of Mr. Pip and friend confessed.

“Mr. Waldengarver,” said the man, “would be glad to have the honour.”

“Waldengarver?” I repeated — when Herbert murmured in my ear, “Probably Wopsle.”

“Oh!” said I.  “Yes.  Shall we follow you?”

“A few steps, please.”  When we were in a side alley, he turned and asked, “How did you think he looked? — I dressed him.”

I don’t know what he had looked like, except a funeral; with the addition of a large Danish sun or star hanging round his neck by a blue ribbon, that had given him the appearance of being insured in some extraordinary Fire Office.  But I said he had looked very nice.

“When he come to the grave,” said our conductor, “he showed his cloak beautiful.  But, judging from the wing, it looked to me that when he see the ghost in the queen’s apartment, he might have made more of his stockings.”

I modestly assented, and we all fell through a little dirty swing door, into a sort of hot packing-case immediately behind it.  Here Mr. Wopsle was divesting himself of his Danish garments, and here there was just room for us to look at him over one another’s shoulders, by keeping the packing-case door, or lid, wide open.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Wopsle, “I am proud to see you.  I hope, Mr. Pip, you will excuse my sending round.  I had the happiness to know you in former times, and the Drama has ever had a claim which has ever been acknowledged, on the noble and the affluent.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Waldengarver, in a frightful perspiration, was trying to get himself out of his princely sables.

“Skin the stockings off, Mr. Waldengarver,” said the owner of that property, “or you’ll bust ’em.  Bust ’em, and you’ll bust five-and-thirty shillings.  Shakspeare never was complimented with a finer pair.  Keep quiet in your chair now, and leave ’em to me.”