There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of one of the streets out of the Strand—it may be there still—in which I have had many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I could, and leaving Peggotty to look after my aunt, I tumbled head foremost into it, and then went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a hope that this brisk treatment might freshen my wits a little; and I think it did them good, for I soon came to the conclusion that the first step I ought to take was, to try if my articles could be cancelled and the premium recovered. I got some breakfast on the Heath, and walked back to Doctors’ Commons, along the watered roads and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers, growing in gardens and carried into town on hucksters’ heads, intent on this first effort to meet our altered circumstances.

I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half-an-hour’s loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who was always first, appeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady corner, looking up at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots, and thinking about Dora; until Mr. Spenlow came in, crisp and curly.

“How are you, Copperfield?” said he. “Fine morning!”

“Beautiful morning, Sir,” said I. “Could I say a word to you before you go into Court?”

“By all means,” said he. “Come into my room.”

I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his gown, and touching himself up before a little glass he had, hanging inside a closet door.

“I am sorry to say,” said I, “that I have some rather disheartening intelligence from my aunt.”

“No!” said he. “Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?”

“It has no reference to her health, Sir,” I replied. “She has met with some large losses. In fact, she has very little left, indeed.”

“You as-tound me, Copperfield!” cried Mr. Spenlow.

I shook my head. “Indeed, Sir,” said I, “her affairs are so changed, that I wished to ask you whether it would be possible—at a sacrifice on our part of some portion of the premium, of course,”—I put in this, on the spur of the moment, warned by the blank expression of his face—“to cancel my articles?”

What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It was like asking, as a favour, to be sentenced to transportation from Dora.

“To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?”

I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not know where my means of subsistence were to come from, unless I could earn them for myself. I had no fear for the future, I said—and I laid great emphasis on that, as if to imply that I should still be decidedly eligible for a son-in-law one of these days—but, for the present, I was thrown upon my own resources.

“I am extremely sorry to hear this, Copperfield,” said Mr. Spenlow. “Extremely sorry. It is not usual to cancel articles for any such reason. It is not a professional course of proceeding. It is not a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At the same time—”

“You are very good, Sir,” I murmured, anticipating a concession.

“Not at all. Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Spenlow. “At the same time, I was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered—if I had not a partner—Mr. Jorkins—”

My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.