Breakfast had been ordered at a pleasant little tavern, a mile or so away upon the rising ground beyond the Green, and there was a bagatelle board in the room, in case we should desire to unbend our minds after the solemnity. It was pleasant to observe that Mrs Wemmick no longer unwound Wemmick's arm when it adapted itself to her figure, but sat in a high-backed chair against the wall, like a violoncello in its case, and submitted to be embraced as that melodious instrument might have done.

We had an excellent breakfast, and when any one declined anything on table, Wemmick said, `Provided by contract, you know; don't be afraid of it!' I drank to the new couple, drank to the Aged, drank to the Castle, saluted the bride at parting, and made myself as agreeable as I could.

Wemmick came down to the door with me, and I again shook hands with him, and wished him joy.

`Thankee!' said Wemmick, rubbing his hands. `She's such a manager of fowls, you have no idea. You shall have some eggs, and judge for yourself. I say, Mr Pip!' calling me back, and speaking low. `This is altogether a Walworth sentiment, please.'

`I understand. Not to be mentioned in Little Britain,' said I.

Wemmick nodded. `After what you let out the other day, Mr Jaggers may as well not know of it. He might think my brain was softening, or something of the kind.'