Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

in spirits was that the images could not be true there being no medium between expensive quantities of linen badly got up and all in creases and none whatever, which certainly does not seem probable though perhaps in consequence of the extremes of rich and poor which may account for it.”

Arthur tried to edge a word in, but Flora hurried on again.

“Venice Preserved too,” said she, “I think you have been there is it well or ill preserved for people differ so and Maccaroni if they really eat it like the conjurors why not cut it shorter, you are acquainted Arthur⁠—dear Doyce and Clennam at least not dear and most assuredly not Doyce for I have not the pleasure but pray excuse me⁠—acquainted I believe with Mantua what has it got to do with Mantua-making for I never have been able to conceive?”

“I believe there is no connection, Flora, between the two,” Arthur was beginning, when she caught him up again.

“Upon your word no isn’t there I never did but that’s like me I run away with an idea and having none to spare I keep it, alas there was a time dear Arthur that is to say decidedly not dear nor Arthur neither but you understand me when one bright idea gilded the what’s-his-name horizon of et cetera but it is darkly clouded now and all is over.”

Arthur’s increasing wish to speak of something very different was by this time so plainly written on his face, that Flora stopped in a tender look, and asked him what it was?

“I have the greatest desire, Flora, to speak to someone who is now in this house⁠—with Mr. Casby no doubt. Someone whom I saw come in, and who, in a misguided and deplorable way, has deserted the house of a friend of mine.”

“Papa sees so many and such odd people,” said Flora, rising, “that I shouldn’t venture to go down for anyone but you Arthur but for you I would willingly go down in a diving-bell much more a dining-room and will come back directly if you’ll mind and at the same time not mind Mr. F.’s Aunt while I’m gone.”

With those words and a parting glance, Flora bustled out, leaving Clennam under dreadful apprehension of this terrible charge.

The first variation which manifested itself in Mr. F.’s Aunt’s demeanour when she had finished her piece of toast, was a loud and prolonged sniff. Finding it impossible to avoid construing this demonstration into a defiance of himself, its gloomy significance being unmistakable, Clennam looked plaintively at the excellent though prejudiced lady from whom it emanated, in the hope that she might be disarmed by a meek submission.

“None of your eyes at me,” said Mr. F.’s Aunt, shivering with hostility. “Take that.”

“That” was the crust of the piece of toast. Clennam accepted the boon with a look of gratitude, and held it in his hand under the pressure of a little embarrassment, which was not relieved when Mr. F.’s Aunt, elevating her voice into a cry of considerable power, exclaimed, “He has a proud stomach, this chap! He’s too proud a chap to eat it!” and, coming out of her chair, shook her venerable fist so very close to his nose as to tickle the surface. But for the timely return of Flora, to find him in this difficult situation, further consequences might have ensued. Flora, without the least discomposure or surprise, but congratulating the old lady in an approving manner on being “very lively tonight,” handed her back to her chair.

“He has a proud stomach, this chap,” said Mr. F.’s relation, on being reseated. “Give him a meal of chaff!”

“Oh! I don’t think he would like that, aunt,” returned Flora.

“Give him a meal of chaff, I tell you,” said Mr. F.’s Aunt, glaring round Flora on her enemy. “It’s the only thing for a proud stomach. Let him eat up every morsel. Drat him, give him a meal of chaff!”

Under a general pretence of helping him to this refreshment, Flora got him out on the staircase; Mr. F.’s Aunt even then constantly reiterating, with inexpressible bitterness, that he was “a chap,” and had a “proud stomach,” and over and over again insisting on that equine provision being made for him which she had already so strongly prescribed.

“Such an inconvenient staircase and so many corner-stairs Arthur,” whispered Flora, “would you object to putting your arm round me under my pelerine?”

With a sense of going downstairs in a highly-ridiculous manner, Clennam descended in the required attitude, and only released his fair burden at the dining-room door; indeed, even there she was rather difficult to be got rid of, remaining in his embrace to murmur, “Arthur, for mercy’s sake, don’t breathe it to papa!”

She accompanied Arthur into the room, where the Patriarch sat alone, with his list shoes on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had never left off. The youthful Patriarch, aged ten, looked out of his picture-frame above him with no calmer air than he. Both smooth heads were alike beaming, blundering, and bumpy.

“Mr. Clennam, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, sir, I hope you are well. Please to sit down, please to sit down.”

“I had hoped, sir,” said Clennam, doing so, and looking round with a face of blank disappointment, “not to find you alone.”

“Ah, indeed?” said the Patriarch, sweetly. “Ah, indeed?”

“I told you so you know papa,” cried Flora.

“Ah, to be sure!” returned the Patriarch. “Yes, just so. Ah, to be sure!”

“Pray, sir,” demanded Clennam, anxiously, “is Miss Wade gone?”

“Miss⁠—? Oh, you call her Wade,” returned Mr. Casby. “Highly proper.”

Arthur quickly returned, “What do you call her?”

“Wade,” said Mr. Casby. “Oh, always Wade.”

After looking at the philanthropic visage and the long silky white hair for a few seconds, during which Mr. Casby twirled his thumbs, and smiled at the fire as if he were benevolently wishing it to burn him that he might forgive it, Arthur began:

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Casby⁠—”

“Not so, not so,” said the Patriarch, “not so.”

“⁠—But,