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Steerforth’s Home

           

           Iwasabashedathavingmadesogreatamistake,andwasgladtochangethesubject.Fortunatelyitwasnotdifficulttodo,forSteerforthcouldalwayspassfromonesubjecttoanotherwithacarelessnessandlightnessthatwerehisown.

           Lunchsucceededtooursight-seeing,andtheshortwinterdayworeawaysofast,thatitwasduskwhenthestage-coachstoppedwithusatanoldbrickhouseatHighgateonthesummitofthehill.Anelderlylady,thoughnotveryfaradvancedinyears,withaproudcarriageandahandsomeface,wasinthedoorwayaswealighted;andgreetingSteerforthas‘MydearestJames,’foldedhiminherarms.Tothisladyhepresentedmeashismother,andshegavemeastatelywelcome.

           Itwasagenteelold-fashionedhouse,veryquietandorderly.FromthewindowsofmyroomIsawallLondonlyinginthedistancelikeagreatvapour,withhereandtheresomelightstwinklingthroughit.Ihadonlytime,indressing,toglanceatthesolidfurniture,theframedpiecesofwork(done,Isupposed,bySteerforth’smotherwhenshewasagirl),andsomepicturesincrayonsofladieswithpowderedhairandbodices,comingandgoingonthewalls,asthenewly-kindledfirecrackledandsputtered,whenIwascalledtodinner.

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