We got out; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long low parlour looking towards the street, from the window of which I caught a glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep breathing into the pony’s nostrils, and immediately covering them with his hand, as if he were putting some spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece were two portraits: one of a gentleman with gray hair (though not by any means an old man) and black eyebrows, who was looking over some papers tied together with red tape; the other, of a lady, with a very placid and sweet expression of face, who was looking at me.

I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah’s picture, when, a door at the farther end of the room opening, a gentleman entered, at sight of whom I turned to the first-mentioned portrait again, to make quite sure that it had not come out of its frame. But it was stationary; and as the gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some years older than when he had had his picture painted.

“Miss Betsey Trotwood,” said the gentleman, “pray walk in. I was engaged for the moment, but you’ll excuse my being busy. You know my motive. I have but one in life.”

Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room, which was furnished as an office, with books, papers, tin boxes, and so forth. It looked into a garden, and had an iron safe let into the wall; so immediately over the mantel-shelf, that I wondered, as I sat down, how the sweeps got round it when they swept the chimney.

“Well, Miss Trotwood,” said Mr. Wickfield; for I soon found that it was he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward of the estates of a rich gentleman of the county; “what wind blows you here? Not an ill wind, I hope?”

“No,” replied my aunt, “I have not come for any law.”

“That’s right, Ma’am,” said Mr. Wickfield. “You had better come for anything else.”

His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows were still black. He had a very agreeable face, and, I thought, was handsome. There was a certain richness in his complexion, which I had been long accustomed, under Peggotty’s tuition, to connect with port wine; and I fancied it was in his voice too, and referred his growing corpulency to the same cause. He was very cleanly dressed, in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, and nankeen trousers; and his fine frilled shirt and cambric neckcloth looked unusually soft and white, reminding my strolling fancy (I call to mind) of the plumage on the breast of a swan.

“This is my nephew,” said my aunt.

“Wasn’t aware you had one, Miss Trotwood,” said Mr. Wickfield.

“My grand-nephew, that is to say,” observed my aunt.

“Wasn’t aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my word,” said Mr. Wickfield.

“I have adopted him,” said my aunt, with a wave of her hand, importing that his knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her, “and I have brought him here, to put him to a school where he may be thoroughly well taught, and well treated. Now tell me where that school is, and what it is, and all about it.”

“Before I can advise you properly,” said Mr. Wickfield,—“the old question, you know. What’s your motive in this?”

“Deuce take the man!” exclaimed my aunt. “Always fishing for motives, when they’re on the surface! Why, to make the child happy and useful.”

“It must be a mixed motive, I think,” said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his head and smiling incredulously.