Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. 'Hadn't I

better work the while?' she asked. 'I can work and attend too. I would

rather, if I may.'

Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work,

that Flora answered, 'Well my dear whatever you like best,' and produced

a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her

side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and

began to hem. 'What nimble fingers you have,' said Flora, 'but are you sure you are

well?' 'Oh yes, indeed!' Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough

good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head,

sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use

of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet

face that bent over the work.

'You must know my dear,' said Flora, 'but that I have no doubt you know

already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way

but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what's his names

upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had

been engaged to Arthur Clennam--Mr Clennam in public where reserve is

necessary Arthur here--we were all in all to one another it was the

morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of

that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in

which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the

late Mr F.' Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.

'To paint,' said she, 'the emotions of that morning when all was marble

within and Mr F.'s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to

reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken

down two streets from the house and Mr F.'s Aunt brought home like the

fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt,

suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the

dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon

was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental

tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they

separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.'

The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest

complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and

blood. 'I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his

appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but

palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood

of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down,

ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers

out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another

sphere.' His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her

eyes. 'I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent

husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint

at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint

bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa's roof

and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa

came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me

below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except

that he was still unmarried still unchanged!'




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