I have！ I believe I am not mistaken in supposing that I am acquainted
with those features？ I think I address a gentleman of whose return to
this country I was informed by Mr Flintwinch？'
'That is your present visitor。'
'Really！ Mr Clennam？'
'No other； Mr Casby。'
'Mr Clennam； I am glad to see you。 How have you been since we met？'
Without thinking it worth while to explain that in the course of some
quarter of a century he had experienced occasional slight fluctuations
in his health and spirits； Clennam answered generally that he had never
been better； or something equally to the purpose； and shook hands with
the possessor of 'that head' as it shed its patriarchal light upon him。
'We are older； Mr Clennam；' said Christopher Casby。
'We are……not younger；' said Clennam。 After this wise remark he felt that
he was scarcely shining with brilliancy； and became aware that he was
nervous。
'And your respected father；' said Mr Casby； 'is no more！ I was grieved
to hear it； Mr Clennam； I was grieved。'
Arthur replied in the usual way that he felt infinitely obliged to him。
'There was a time；' said Mr Casby； 'when your parents and myself were
not on friendly terms。 There was a little family misunderstanding among
us。 Your respected mother was rather jealous of her son； maybe； when I
say her son； I mean your worthy self； your worthy self。'
His smooth face had a bloom upon it like ripe wall…fruit。 What with
his blooming face； and that head； and his blue eyes； he seemed to be
delivering sentiments of rare wisdom and virtue。 In like manner； his
physiognomical expression seemed to teem with benignity。 Nobody could
have said where the wisdom was； or where the virtue was； or where the
benignity was； but they all seemed to be somewhere about him。 'Those
times； however；' pursued Mr Casby； 'are past and gone； past and gone。
I do myself the pleasure of making a visit to your respected mother
occasionally； and of admiring the fortitude and strength of mind with
which she bears her trials； bears her trials。' When he made one of these
little repetitions； sitting with his hands crossed before him； he did it
with his head on one side； and a gentle smile； as if he had something in
his thoughts too sweetly profound to be put into words。 As if he denied
himself the pleasure of uttering it； lest he should soar too high； and
his meekness therefore preferred to be unmeaning。
'I have heard that you were kind enough on one of those occasions；' said
Arthur； catching at the opportunity as it drifted past him； 'to mention
Little Dorrit to my mother。'
'Little……Dorrit？ That's the seamstress who was mentioned to me by a
small tenant of mine？ Yes； yes。 Dorrit？ That's the name。 Ah； yes； yes！
You call her Little Dorrit？'
No road in that direction。 Nothing came of the cross…cut。 It led no
further。
'My daughter Flora；' said Mr Casby； 'as you may have heard probably； Mr
Clennam； was married and established in life； several years ago。 She
had the misfortune to lose her husband when she had been married a few
months。 She resides with me again。 She will be glad to see you； if you
will permit me to let her know that you are here。'
'By all means；' returned Clennam。 'I should have preferred the request；
if your kindness had not anticipated me。'
Upon this Mr Casby rose up in his list shoes； and with a slow； heavy
step （he was of an elephantine build）； made for the door。 He had a long
wide…skirted bottle…green coat on； and a bottle…green pair of trousers；
and a bottle…green waistcoat。 The Patriarchs were not dressed in
bottle…green broadcloth； and yet his clothes looked patriarchal。
He had scarcely left the room； and allowed the ticking to bee audible
again； when a quick hand turned a latchkey in the house…door； opened it；
and shut it。 Immediately afterwards； a quick and eager short dark man
came into the room with so much way upon him that he was within a foot
of Clennam before he could stop。
'Halloa！' he said。
Clennam saw no reason why he should not say 'Halloa！' too。
'What's the matter？' said the short dark man。
'I have not heard that anything is the matter；' returned Clennam。
'Where's Mr Casby？' asked the short dark man； looking about。 'He will be
here directly； if you want him。'
'_I_ want him？' said the short dark man。 'Don't you？' This elicited a
word or two of explanation from Clennam； during the delivery of which
the short dark man held his breath and looked at him。 He was dressed in
black and rusty iron grey； had jet black beads of eyes； a scrubby little
black chin； wiry black hair striking out from his head in prongs； like
forks or hair…pins； and a plexion that was very dingy by nature； or
very dirty by art； or a pound of nature and art。 He had dirty hands
and dirty broken nails； and looked as if he had been in the coals； he
was in a perspiration； and snorted and sniffed and puffed and blew； like
a little labouring steam…engine。
'Oh！' said he； when Arthur told him how he came to be there。 'Very well。
That's right。 If he should ask for Pancks； will you be so good as to say
that Pancks is e in？' And so； with a snort and a puff； he worked out
by another door。
Now； in the old days at home； certain audacious doubts respecting the
last of the Patriarchs； which were afloat in the air； had； by some
forgotten means； e in contact with Arthur's sensorium。 He was aware
of motes and specks of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time； seen
through which medium； Christopher Casby was a mere Inn signpost； without
any Inn……an invitation to rest and be thankful； when there was no place
to put up at； and nothing whatever to be thankful for。 He knew that some
of these specks even represented Christopher as capable of harbouring
designs in 'that head；' and as being a crafty impostor。 Other motes
there were which showed him as a heavy； selfish； drifting Booby； who；
having stumbled； in the course of his unwieldy jostlings against other
men； on the discovery that to get through life with ease and credit；
he had but to hold his tongue； keep the bald part of his head well
polished； and leave his hair alone； had had just cunning enough to seize
the idea and stick to it。 It was said that his being town…agent to
Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was referable； not to his having the least
business capacity； but to his looking so supremely benignant that nobody
could suppose the property screwed or jobbed under such a man； also；
that for similar reasons he now got more money out of his own wretched
lettings； unquestioned； than anybody with a less nobby and less shining
crown could possibly have done。 In a word； it was represented （Clennam
called to mind； alone in the ticking parlour） that many people select
their models； much as the painters； just now mentioned； select theirs；
and that； whereas in the Royal Academy some evil old ruffian of a
Dog…stealer will annually be found embodying all the cardinal virtues；
on account of his eyelashes； or his chin； or his legs （thereby planting
thorns of confusion in the breasts of the more observant students of
nature）； so； in the great social Exhibition； accessories are often
accepted in lieu of the internal character。
Calling these things to mind； and ranging Mr Pancks in a row with them；
Arthur Clennam leaned this day to the opinion； without quite deciding
on it； that the last of the Patriarchs was the drifting Booby aforesaid；
with the one idea of keeping the bald part of his head highly polished：
and that； much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames river may sometimes be
seen heavily driving with the tide； broadside on； stern first； in its
own way and in the way of everything else； though making a great show
of navigation； when all of a sudden； a little coaly steam…tug will bear
down upon it； take it in tow； and bustle off with it； similarly the
cumbrous Patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks； and was
now following in the wake of that dingy little craft。
The return of Mr Casby with his daughter Flora； put an end to these
meditations。 Clennam's eyes no sooner fell upon the subject of his old
passion than it shivered and broke to pieces。
Most men will be found sufficiently true to themselves to be true to
an old idea。 It is no proof of an inconstant mind； but exactly the
opposite； when the idea will not bear close parison with the reality；
and the contrast is a fatal shock to it。 Such was Clennam's case。 In his
youth he had ardently loved this woman； and had heaped upon her all the
locked…up wealth of his affection and imagination。 That wealth had been；
in his desert home； like Robinson Crusoe's money； exchangeable with no
one； lying idle in the dark to rust； until he poured it out for her。
Ever since that memorable time； though he had； until the night of his
arrival； as pletely dismissed her from any association with his
Present or Future as if she had been dead （which she might easily
have been for anything he knew）； he had kept the old fancy of the Past
unchanged； in its old sacred place。 And now； after all； the last of the
Patriarchs coolly walked into the parlour； saying in effect； 'Be good
enough to throw it down and dance upon it。 This is Flora。'
Flora； always tall； had grown to be very broad too； and short of breath；
but that was not much。 Flora； whom he had left a lily； had bee a
peony； but that was not much。 Flora； who had seemed enchanting in all
she said and thought； was diffuse and silly。 That was much。 Flora； who
had been spoiled and artless long ago； was determined to be spoiled and
artless now。 That was a fatal blow。
This is Flora！
'I am sure；' giggled Flora； tossing her head with a caricature of
her girlish manner； such as a mummer might have presented at her own
funeral； if she had lived and died in classical antiquity； 'I am ashamed
to see Mr Clennam； I am a mere fright； I know he'll find me fearfully
changed； I am actually an old woman； it's shocking to be found out； it's
really shocking！'
He assured her that she was just what he had expected and that time had
not stood still with himself。
'Oh！ But with a gentleman it's so different and really you look so
amazingly well that you have no right to say anything of the kind；
while； as to me； you know……oh！' cried Flora with a little scream； 'I am
dreadful！'
The Patriarch； apparently not yet understanding his own part in the
drama under representation； glowed with vacant serenity。
'But if we talk of not having changed；' said Flora； who； whatever
she said； never once came to a full stop； 'look at Papa； is not Papa
precisely what he was when you went away； isn't it cruel and unnatural
of Papa to be such a reproach to his own child； if we go on in this way
much longer people who don't know us will begin to suppose that I am
Papa's Mama！'
That must be a long time hence； Arthur considered。
'Oh Mr Clennam you insincerest of creatures；' said Flora； 'I perceive
already you have not lost your old way of paying pliments； your old
way when you used to pretend to be so sentimentally struck you know……at
least I don't mean that； I……oh I don't know what I mean！' Here Flora
tittered confusedly； and gave him one of her old glances。
The Patriarch； as if he now began to perceive that his