into which these houses were divided, were in
every stage of dilapidated blind and curtain,
crippled flower-pot, cracked glass, dusty decay
and miserable makeshift; while To Let To Let
To Let, glared at me from empty rooms, as
if no new wretches ever came there, and the
vengeance of the soul of Barnard were being
slowly appeased by the gradual suicide of the
present occupants and their unholy interment
under the gravel. A frouzy mourning of soot
and smoke attired this forlorn creation of Barnard,
and it had strewn ashes on its head,
and was undergoing penance and humiliation
as a mere dust-hole. Thus far my sense of
sight; while dry rot and wet rot and all the
silent rots that rot in neglected roof and cellar
—rot of rat and mouse and bug and coaching-
stables near at hand besides—addressed
themselves faintly to my sense of smell, and moaned,

"Try Barnard's Mixture."

So imperfect was this realisation of the first
of my great expectations, that I looked in dismay
at Mr. Wemmick. "Ah!" said he, mistaking
me; "the retirement reminds you of the
country. So it does me."

He led me into a corner and conducted me
up a flight of stairs—which appeared to me to
be slowly collapsing into sawdust, so that one of
these days the upper lodgers would look out at
their doors and find themselves without the
means of coming down—to a set of chambers
on the top floor. Mr. POCKET, JUN, was painted
on the door, and there was a label on the letterbox,
"Return shortly."

"He hardly thought you'd come so soon,"
Mr. Wemmick explained. "You don't want me
any more?"

"No, thank you," said I.

"As I keep the cash," Mr. Wemmick
observed, "we shall most likely meet pretty often.
Good day."

"Good day."

I put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at
first looked at it as if he thought I wanted
something. Then he looked at me, and said,
correcting himself,

"To be sure! Yes. You're in the habit of
shaking hands?"

I was rather confused, thinking it must be out
of the London fashion, but said yes.

"I have got so out of it!" said Mr. Wemmick
—"except at last. Very glad, I'm sure,
to make your acquaintance. Good day!"

When we had shaken hands and he was gone,
I opened the staircase window and had nearly
beheaded myself, for the lines had rotted away,
and it came down like the guillotine. Happily
it was so quick that I had not put my head out.
After this escape, I was content to take a foggy
view of the Inn through the window's encrusting
dirt, and to stand dolefully looking out, saying
to myself that London was decidedly overrated.

Mr. Pocket, Junior's, idea of Shortly was not
mine, for I had nearly maddened myself with
looking out for half an hour, and had written my
name with my finger several times in the dirt of
every pane in the window, before I heard footsteps
on the stairs. Gradually there arose
before me the hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat,
trousers, boots, of a member of society of about
my own standing. He had a paper-bag under
each arm and a pottle of strawberries in one
hand, and was out of breath.

"Mr. Pip?" said he.

"Mr. Pocket?" said I.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I am extremely
sorry; but I knew there was a coach from your
part of the country at mid-day, and I thought
you would come by that one. The fact is, I
have been out on your account—not that that
is any excuse—for I thought, coming from the
country, you might like a little fruit, after
dinner, and I went to Covent Garden Market to
get it good."

For a reason that I had, I felt as if my eyes
would start out of my head. I acknowledged
his attention incoherently, and began to think
this was a dream.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Pocket, Junior. "This
door sticks so!"

As he was fast making jam of his fruit by
wrestling with the door while the paper-bags
were under his arms, I begged him to allow me
to hold them. He relinquished them with an
agreeable smile, and combated with the door as
if it were a wild beast. It yielded so suddenly
at last, that he staggered back upon me, and I
staggered back upon the opposite door, and we
both laughed. But still I felt as if my eyes
must start out of my head, and as if this must
be a dream.

"Pray come in," said Mr. Pocket, Junior.
"Allow me to lead the way. I am rather bare
here, but I hope you'll be able to make out
tolerably well till Monday. My father thought
you would get on more agreeably through
tomorrow with me than with him, and might like
to take a walk about London. I am sure I
shall be very happy to show London to you. As
to our table, you won't find that bad, I hope, for
it will be supplied from our coffee-house here, and
(it is only right I should add) at your expense,
such being Mr. Jaggers's directions. As to our
lodging, it's not by any means splendid, because
I have my own bread to earn, and my father
hasn't anything to give me, and I shouldn't be
willing to take it, if he had. This is our sitting-
room—just such chairs and tables and carpet
and so forth, you see, as they could spare from
home. You mustn't give me credit for the
tablecloth and spoons and castors, because they
come for you from the coffee-house. This is
my little bedroom; rather musty, but Barnard's
is musty. This is your bedroom; the furniture's
hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer
the purpose; if you should want anything, I'll
go and fetch it. The chambers are retired, and
we shall be alone together, but we shan't fight, I
dare say. But, dear me, I beg your pardon,
you're holding the fruit all this time. Pray
let me take these bags from you. I am quite
ashamed."

As I stood opposite to Mr. Pocket, Junior,