On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the curtains, he espied¹ Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary², and the single gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with great earnestness but in very subdued³ tones — fearing, no doubt, to disturb him. He lost no time in letting them know that this precaution was unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly approached his bedside. Old Mr Garland was the first to stretch out his hand, and inquire how he felt.

Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak as need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and pressing up to his pillow as if in jealousy⁴ of their interference, set his breakfast before him, and insisted on his taking it before he underwent the fatigue⁵ of speaking or of being spoken to. Mr Swiveller, who was perfectly⁷ ravenous⁸, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct and consistent dreams of mutton chops, double stout⁹, and similar delicacies¹⁰, felt even the weak tea and dry toast such irresistible¹¹ temptations, that he consented to eat and drink on one condition.

‘And that is,’ said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland’s hand, ‘that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop. Is it too late?’

‘For completing the work you began so well last night?’ returned the old gentleman. ‘No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not, I assure you.’

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