'What did you think of my brother, sir?' he asked, when he by-and-by
discovered what he was doing, left off, reached over to the
chimney-piece, and took his clarionet case down.
'I was glad,' said Arthur, very much at a loss, for his thoughts were
on the brother before him; 'to find him so well and cheerful.' 'Ha!'
muttered the old man, 'yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'
Arthur wondered what he could possibly want with the clarionet case. He
did not want it at all. He discovered, in due time, that it was not the
little paper of snuff (which was also on the chimney-piece), put it back
again, took down the snuff instead, and solaced himself with a pinch. He
was as feeble, spare, and slow in his pinches as in everything else, but
a certain little trickling of enjoyment of them played in the poor worn
nerves about the corners of his eyes and mouth.'Amy, Mr Clennam. What do you think of her?'
'I am much impressed, Mr Dorrit, by all that I have seen of her and
thought of her.' 'My brother would have been quite lost without Amy,' he returned. 'We
should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good girl, Amy. She
does her duty.' Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of custom,
which he had heard from the father last night with an inward protest and
feeling of antagonism. It was not that they stinted her praises, or
were insensible to what she did for them; but that they were lazily
habituated to her, as they were to all the rest of their condition.
He fancied that although they had before them, every day, the means of
comparison between her and one another and themselves, they regarded her
as being in her necessary place; as holding a position towards them all
which belonged to her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they
viewed her, not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as
appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to expect,
and nothing more.
Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in
coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was Amy,
he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with as vivid
a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn face, and decayed
figure, as if he were still drooping in his chair.
She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual
timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat faster
than usual. 'Mr Clennam, Amy,' said her uncle, 'has been expecting you some time.' 'I took the liberty of sending you a message.' 'I received the message, sir.'