That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and
fol lowers for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure
and delight, which no common imagination can adequately
conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from
his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze
on Mr. Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the
sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions
which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly
at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them
both, as unusual as it was alarming.
'And how,' said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his
followers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of
welcome--'how is Tupman?'
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly
addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared
absorbed in melancholy reflection.
'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, 'how is our friend--
he is not ill?'
'No,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his
sentimental eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame-'no; he
is not ill.
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