Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens [big ebook reader txt] 📗

you have not lost your old way of paying compliments, 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 part in the piece was to get off the stage as soon as might be, rose, and went to the door by which Pancks had worked out, hailing that Tug by name. He received an answer from some little Dock beyond, and was towed out of sight directly.

“You mustn’t think of going yet,” said Flora⁠—Arthur had looked at his hat, being in a ludicrous dismay, and not knowing what to do: “you could never be so unkind as to think of going, Arthur⁠—I mean Mr. Arthur⁠—or I suppose Mr. Clennam would be far more proper⁠—but I am sure I don’t know what I am saying⁠—without a word about the dear old days gone forever, when I come to think of it I dare say it would be much better not to speak of them and it’s highly probable that you have some much more agreeable engagement and pray let me be the last person in the world to interfere with it though there was a time, but I am running into nonsense again.”

Was it possible that Flora could have been such a chatterer in the days she referred to? Could there have been anything like her present disjointed volubility in the fascinations that had captivated him?

“Indeed I have little doubt,” said Flora, running on with astonishing speed, and pointing her conversation with nothing but commas, and very few of them, “that you are married to some Chinese lady, being in China so long and being in business and naturally desirous to settle and extend your connection nothing was more likely than that you should propose to a Chinese lady and nothing was more natural I am sure than that the Chinese lady should accept you and think herself very well off too, I only hope she’s not a Pagodian dissenter.”

“I am not,” returned Arthur, smiling in spite of himself, “married to any lady, Flora.”

“Oh good gracious me I hope you never kept yourself a bachelor so long on my account!” tittered Flora; “but of course you never did why should you, pray don’t answer, I don’t know where I’m running to, oh do tell me something about the Chinese ladies whether their eyes are really so long and narrow always putting me in mind of mother-of-pearl fish at cards and do they really wear tails down their back and plaited too or is it only the men, and when they pull their hair so very tight off their foreheads don’t they hurt themselves, and why do they stick little bells all over their bridges and temples and hats and things or don’t they really do it?” Flora gave him another of her old glances. Instantly she went on again, as if he had spoken in reply for some time.

“Then it’s all true and they really do! good gracious Arthur!⁠—pray excuse me⁠—old habit⁠—Mr. Clennam far more proper⁠—what a country to live in for so long a time, and with so many lanterns and umbrellas too how very dark and wet the climate ought to be and no doubt actually is, and the sums of money that must be made by those two trades where everybody carries them and hangs them everywhere, the little shoes too and the feet screwed back in infancy is quite surprising, what a traveller you are!”

In his ridiculous distress, Clennam received another of the old glances without in the least knowing what to do with it.

“Dear dear,” said Flora, “only to think of the changes at home Arthur⁠—cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr. Clennam far more proper⁠—since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language which I am persuaded you speak like a native if not better for you were always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur⁠—I am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper⁠—as no one could have believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs. Finching when I can’t imagine it myself!”

“Is that your married name?” asked Arthur, struck, in the midst of all this, by a certain warmth of heart that expressed itself in her tone when she referred, however oddly, to the youthful relation in which they had stood to one another. “Finching?”

“Finching oh yes isn’t it a dreadful name, but as Mr. F. said when he proposed to me which he did seven times and handsomely consented I must say to be what he used to call on liking twelve months, after all, he wasn’t answerable for it and couldn’t help it could he, Excellent man, not at all like you but excellent man!”

Flora had at last talked herself out of breath for one moment. One moment; for she recovered breath in the act of raising a minute corner of her pocket-handkerchief to her eye, as a tribute to the ghost of the departed Mr. F., and began again.

“No one could dispute, Arthur⁠—Mr. Clennam⁠—that it’s quite right you should be formally friendly to me under the altered circumstances and indeed you couldn’t be anything else, at least I suppose not you ought to know, but I can’t help recalling that there was a time when things were very different.”

“My dear Mrs. Finching,” Arthur began, struck by the good tone again.

“Oh not that nasty ugly name, say Flora!”

“Flora. I assure you, Flora, I am happy in seeing you once more, and in finding that, like me, you have not forgotten the old foolish dreams, when we saw all before us in the light of our youth and hope.”

“You don’t seem so,” pouted Flora, “you take it very coolly, but however I know you are disappointed in me, I suppose the