"Why, that's the very thing," replied Mr. Nickleby, as though his thoughts were about them at that moment. "They are both alive."
"Both!" repeated Newman Noggs, in a low voice.
"And the widow, too," added Mr. Nickleby, "and all three in London, confound them; all three here, Newman."
Newman fell a little behind his master, and his face was curiously twisted as by a spasm, but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward laughter, nobody but himself could possibly explain. The expression of a man's face is commonly a help to his thoughts, or glossary on his speech; but the countenance of Newman Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was a problem which no stretch of ingenuity could solve.
"Go home!" said Mr. Nickleby after they had walked a few paces, looking round at the clerk as if he were his dog. The words were scarcely uttered when Newman darted across the road, slunk among the crowd, and disappeared in an instant.
"Reasonable, certainly!" muttered Mr. Nickleby to himself, as he walked on, "very reasonable! My brother never did anything for me, and I never expected it; the breath is no sooner out of his body than I am to be looked to, as the support of a great hearty woman and a grown boy and girl. What are they to me? I never saw them."
Full of these and many other reflections of a similar kind, Mr. Nickleby made the best of his way to the Strand, and referring to his letter as if to ascertain the number of the house he wanted, stopped at a private door about half-way down that crowded thoroughfare.
A miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt frame screwed upon the street-door, in which were displayed, upon a black velvet ground, two portraits of naval dress coats with faces looking out of them and telescopes attached; one of a young gentleman in a very vermilion uniform, flourishing a sabre; and one of a literary character with a high forehead, a pen and ink, six books, and a curtain. There was moreover a touching representation of a young lady reading a manuscript in an unfathomable forest; and a charming whole length of a large-headed little boy, sitting on a stool with his legs fore-shortened to the size of salt-spoons. Besides these works of art, there were a great many heads of old ladies and gentlemen smirking at each other out of blue and brown skies, and an elegantly-written card of terms with an embossed border.
Mr. Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with great contempt, and gave a double knock, which having been thrice repeated was answered by a servant girl with an uncommonly dirty face.
"Is Mrs. Nickleby at home, girl?" demanded Ralph, sharply.
"Her name ain't Nickleby," said the girl, "La Creevy, you mean."
Mr. Nickleby looked very indignant at the handmaid on being thus corrected, and demanded with much asperity what she meant; which she was about to state, when a female voice, proceeding from a perpendicular staircase at the end of the passage, inquired who was wanted.
"Mrs. Nickleby" said Ralph.
"It's the second floor, Hannah," said the same voice; "what a stupid thing you are! Is the second floor at home?"
