or at any time, and possibly the impression was all a mistake.
"I was one of the printers at Watton's. I remember your coming to Shrewsbury. You've got on pretty well since," Mr. Jones added, looking me up and down with the same air of at least part proprietorship that had puzzled me from the first.
If he had taken my hat off in the Mall, under whose green trees we were walking, and had ruffled my hair, as Mr. Pumblechook used to ruffle Pip's when he reminded him how he had been "brought up by hand," I should not have been greatly surprised.
"I hope you've done well too," I said, trying to lead the conversation in another direction.
"Oh, yes, I've done pretty well!" said Mr. Jones, gazing, not with vain pride, but not entirely without satisfaction, on his new check trousers. "I'm having a holiday, and came to London for a day or two. I saw your likeness in Punch through a shop window this morning. Then I thought to myself, I'll go and see him—see if he's any different.'"
"And am I?" I asked.
Mr. Jones looked me up and down once more with steady gaze. He was not going to answer a question like that without preparation.
"Well," he said, after a pause, "you're older."
That was undeniable. It left me nothing to say, and Mr. Jones again lapsed into one of his intervals of silence. We walked on till we came to Marlborough House, where I turned to the right.
"Well," said Mr. Jones abruptly, "I'm glad to have seen you."
And he went up St. James's-street.
So the tide of life, swelling in London as it had slept in Shrewsbury, once more parted Mr. Jones and me.
