At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old

gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have

practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other

inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration

to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated,

but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections

from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the

sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered

that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no

longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new

habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted

paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who

had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might

not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was

bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned

Venetians.

It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them;

whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he

confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the

strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great

exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the

first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these

attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often

accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old

man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these

excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture

to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances,

silently presenting her to the noble Venetians.

It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having

seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they

had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, 'I forget the name,' said

he. 'I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?' 'I remember 'em well enough,' said the latter. 'I should think so,' observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and

a glance at her sister. 'But they would not have been recalled to our

remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn't tumbled over the subject.'

'My dear, what a curious phrase,' said Mrs General. 'Would not

inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?'




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