She carefully opened her reticule a little way, and showed me a folded piece of paper inside, as the appointment of which she spoke.

“Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds.”

“Really, Miss Flite?” said I, knowing how it pleased her to have her confidence received with an appearance of interest.

She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy. “Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach!”

The poor soul kissed me, with the most troubled look I had ever seen in her; and went her way. Her manner of running over the names of her birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own lips, quite chilled me.

This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have dispensed with the company of Mr Vholes, when Richard (who arrived within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner. Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for some minutes both out of the room together, helping to get ready what we were to eat and drink. Mr Vholes took that opportunity of holding a little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the window where I was sitting, and began upon Symond’s Inn.

“A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official one,” said Mr Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to make it clearer for me.

“There is not much to see here,” said I.

“Nor to hear, miss,” returned Mr Vholes. “A little music does occasionally stray in; but we are not musical in the law, and soon eject it. I hope Mr Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish him?”

I thanked Mr Vholes, and said he was quite well.

“I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his friends myself,” said Mr Vholes, “and I am aware that the gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice, (we are the victims of prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find Mr C looking, Miss Summerson?”

“He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious.”

“Just so,” said Mr Vholes.

He stood behind me, with his long black figure reaching nearly to the ceiling of those low rooms; feeling the pimples on his face as if they were ornaments, and speaking inwardly and evenly as though there were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.

“Mr Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr C, I believe?” he resumed.

“Mr Woodcourt is his disinterested friend,” I answered.

“But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance.”

“That can do little for an unhappy mind,” said I.