prompt:
Chapter: Dear Mr Clennam,

     As I said in my last that it was best for nobody to write to me, and
     as my sending you another little letter can therefore give you no other
     trouble than the trouble of reading it (perhaps you may not find leisure
             for even that, though I hope you will some day), I am now going to
     devote an hour to writing to you again. This time, I write from Rome.

     We left Venice before Mr and Mrs Gowan did, but they were not so long
     upon the road as we were, and did not travel by the same way, and so
     when we arrived we found them in a lodging here, in a place called the
     Via Gregoriana. I dare say you know it.

     Now I am going to tell you all I can about them, because I know that is
     what you most want to hear. Theirs is not a very comfortable lodging,
     but perhaps I thought it less so when I first saw it than you would have
     done, because you have been in many different countries and have
     seen many different customs. Of course it is a far, far better
     place--millions of times--than any I have ever been used to until
     lately; and I fancy I don't look at it with my own eyes, but with hers.
     For it would be easy to see that she has always been brought up in a
     tender and happy home, even if she had not told me so with great love
     for it.

     Well, it is a rather bare lodging up a rather dark common staircase, and
     it is nearly all a large dull room, where Mr Gowan paints. The windows
     are blocked up where any one could look out, and the walls have been
     all drawn over with chalk and charcoal by others who have lived there
     before--oh,--I should think, for years! There is a curtain more
     dust-coloured than red, which divides it, and the part behind the
     curtain makes the private sitting-room. When I first saw her there she
     was alone, and her work had fallen out of her hand, and she was looking
     up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows. Pray do not be
     uneasy when I tell you, but it was not quite so airy, nor so bright, nor
     so cheerful, nor so happy and youthful altogether as I should have liked
     it to be.

     On account of Mr Gowan's painting Papa's picture (which I am not quite
             convinced I should have known from the likeness if I had not seen him
             doing it), I have had more opportunities of being with her since then
     than I might have had without this fortunate chance. She is very much
     alone. Very much alone indeed.

     Shall I tell you about the second time I saw her? I went one day, when
     it happened that I could run round by myself, at four or five o'clock
     in the afternoon. She was then dining alone, and her solitary dinner had
     been brought in from somewhere, over a kind of brazier with a fire in
     it, and she had no company or prospect of company, that I could see,
     but the old man who had brought it. He was telling her a long story (of
             robbers outside the walls being taken up by a stone statue of a Saint),
     to entertain her--as he said to me when I came out, 'because he had a
     daughter of his own, though she was not so pretty.'

     I ought now to mention Mr Gowan, before I say what little more I have to
     say about her. He must admire her beauty, and he must be proud of her,
     for everybody praises it, and he must be fond of her, and I do not
     doubt that he is--but in his way. You know his way, and if it appears
     as careless and discontented in your eyes as it does in mine, I am not
     wrong in thinking that it might be better suited to her. If it does not
     seem so to you, I am quite sure I am wholly mistaken; for your unchanged
     poor child confides in your knowledge and goodness more than she could
     ever tell you if she was to try. But don't be frightened, I am not going
     to try.

     Owing (as I think, if you think so too) to Mr Gowan's unsettled
     and dissatisfied way, he applies himself to his profession very little.
     He does nothing steadily or patiently; but equally takes things up and
     throws them down, and does them, or leaves them undone, without caring
     about them. When I have heard him talking to Papa during the sittings
     for the picture, I have sat wondering whether it could be that he has no
     belief in anybody else, because he has no belief in himself. Is it so?
     I wonder what you will say when you come to this! I know how you will
     look, and I can almost hear the voice in which you would tell me on the
     Iron Bridge.

     Mr Gowan goes out a good deal among what is considered the best company
     here--though he does not look as if he enjoyed it or liked it when he is
     with it--and she sometimes accompanies him, but lately she has gone out
     very little. I think I have noticed that they have an inconsistent way
     of speaking about her, as if she had made some great self-interested
     success in marrying Mr Gowan, though, at the same time, the very same
     people, would not have dreamed of taking him for themselves or their
     daughters. Then he goes into the country besides, to think about making
     sketches; and in all places where there are visitors, he has a large
     acquaintance and is very well known. Besides all this, he has a friend
     who is much in his society both at home and away from home, though he
     treats this friend very coolly and is very uncertain in his behaviour
     to him. I am quite sure (because she has told me so), that she does not
     like this friend. He is so revolting to me, too, that his being away
     from here, at present, is quite a relief to my mind. How much more to
     hers!

     But what I particularly want you to know, and why I have resolved
     to tell you so much while I am afraid it may make you a little
     uncomfortable without occasion, is this. She is so true and so devoted,
     and knows so completely that all her love and duty are his for ever,
     that you may be certain she will love him, admire him, praise him, and
     conceal all his faults, until she dies. I believe she conceals them, and
     always will conceal them, even from herself. She has given him a heart
     that can never be taken back; and however much he may try it, he will
     never wear out its affection. You know the truth of this, as you know
     everything, far far better than I; but I cannot help telling you what a
     nature she shows, and that you can never think too well of her.

     I have not yet called her by her name in this letter, but we are such
     friends now that I do so when we are quietly together, and she speaks to
     me by my name--I mean, not my Christian name, but the name you gave me.
     When she began to call me Amy, I told her my short story, and that you
     had always called me Little Dorrit. I told her that the name was much
     dearer to me than any other, and so she calls me Little Dorrit too.

     Perhaps you have not heard from her father or mother yet, and may not
     know that she has a baby son. He was born only two days ago, and just a
     week after they came. It has made them very happy. However, I must tell
     you, as I am to tell you all, that I fancy they are under a constraint
     with Mr Gowan, and that they feel as if his mocking way with them was
     sometimes a slight given to their love for her. It was but yesterday,
     when I was there, that I saw Mr Meagles change colour, and get up and
     go out, as if he was afraid that he might say so, unless he prevented
     himself by that means. Yet I am sure they are both so considerate,
     good-humoured, and reasonable, that he might spare them. It is hard in
     him not to think of them a little more.

     I stopped at the last full stop to read all this over. It looked at
     first as if I was taking on myself to understand and explain so much,
     that I was half inclined not to send it. But when I thought it over a
     little, I felt more hopeful for your knowing at once that I had only
     been watchful for you, and had only noticed what I think I have noticed,
     because I was quickened by your interest in it. Indeed, you may be sure
     that is the truth.

     And now I have done with the subject in the present letter, and have
     little left to say.

     We are all quite well, and Fanny improves every day. You can hardly
     think how kind she is to me, and what pains she takes with me. She has
     a lover, who has followed her, first all the way from Switzerland, and
     then all the way from Venice, and who has just confided to me that he
     means to follow her everywhere. I was much confused by his speaking to
     me about it, but he would. I did not know what to say, but at last I
     told him that I thought he had better not. For Fanny (but I did not tell
             him this) is much too spirited and clever to suit him. Still, he said he
     would, all the same. I have no lover, of course.

     If you should ever get so far as this in this long letter, you will
     perhaps say, Surely Little Dorrit will not leave off without telling me
     something about her travels, and surely it is time she did. I think it
     is indeed, but I don't know what to tell you. Since we left Venice we
     have been in a great many wonderful places, Genoa and Florence among
     them, and have seen so many wonderful sights, that I am almost giddy
     when I think what a crowd they make. But you can tell me so much more
     about them than I can tell you, that why should I tire you with my
     accounts and descriptions?

     Dear Mr Clennam, as I had the courage to tell you what the familiar
     difficulties in my travelling mind were before, I will not be a coward
     now. One of my frequent thoughts is this:--Old as these cities are,
     their age itself is hardly so curious, to my reflections, as that they
     should have been in their places all through those days when I did not
     even know of the existence of more than two or three of them, and when
     I scarcely knew of anything outside our old walls. There is something
     melancholy in it, and I don't know why. When we went to see the famous
     leaning tower at Pisa, it was a bright sunny day, and it and the
     buildings near it looked so old, and the earth and the sky looked so
     young, and its shadow on the ground was so soft and retired! I could not
     at first think how beautiful it was, or how curious, but I thought, 'O
     how many times when the shadow of the wall was falling on our room, and
     when that weary tread of feet was going up and down the yard--O how many
     times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is to-day!' It quite
     overpowered me. My heart was so full that tears burst out of my eyes,
     though I did what I could to restrain them. And I have the same feeling
     often--often.

     Do you know that since the change in our fortunes, though I appear to
     myself to have dreamed more than before, I have always dreamed of myself
     as very young indeed! I am not very old, you may say. No, but that is
     not what I mean. I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning
     to do needlework. I have often dreamed of myself as back there, seeing
     faces in the yard little known, and which I should have thought I had
     quite forgotten; but, as often as not, I have been abroad here--in
     Switzerland, or France, or Italy--somewhere where we have been--yet
     always as that little child. I have dreamed of going down to Mrs
     General, with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember
     myself. I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner
     at Venice when we have had a large company, in the mourning for my poor
     mother which I wore when I was eight years old, and wore long after it
     was threadbare and would mend no more. It has been a great distress to
     me to think how irreconcilable the company would consider it with my
     father's wealth, and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny
     and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret. But
     I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it; and at the
     self-same moment I have dreamed that I have sat with the heart-ache at
     table, calculating the expenses of the dinner, and quite distracting
     myself with thinking how they were ever to be made good. I have never
     dreamed of the change in our fortunes itself; I have never dreamed of
     your coming back with me that memorable morning to break it; I have
     never even dreamed of you.

     Dear Mr Clennam, it is possible that I have thought of you--and
     others--so much by day, that I have no thoughts left to wander round
     you by night. For I must now confess to you that I suffer from
     home-sickness--that I long so ardently and earnestly for home, as
     sometimes, when no one sees me, to pine for it. I cannot bear to turn my
     face further away from it. My heart is a little lightened when we turn
     towards it, even for a few miles, and with the knowledge that we are
     soon to turn away again. So dearly do I love the scene of my poverty and
     your kindness. O so dearly, O so dearly!

     Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We are all
     fond of the life here (except me), and there are no plans for our
     return. My dear father talks of a visit to London late in this next
     spring, on some affairs connected with the property, but I have no hope
     that he will bring me with him.

     I have tried to get on a little better under Mrs General's instruction,
     and I hope I am not quite so dull as I used to be. I have begun to speak
     and understand, almost easily, the hard languages I told you about. I
     did not remember, at the moment when I wrote last, that you knew them
     both; but I remembered it afterwards, and it helped me on. God bless
     you, dear Mr Clennam. Do not forget

     Your ever grateful and affectionate

     LITTLE DORRIT.

     P.S.--Particularly remember that Minnie Gowan deserves the best
     remembrance in which you can hold her. You cannot think too generously
     or too highly of her. I forgot Mr Pancks last time. Please, if you
     should see him, give him your Little Dorrit's kind regard. He was very
     good to Little D.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Amy tries to recap some stuff to Arthur. We actually know most of what she's about to tell him, but this is the narrative's handy way of giving Arthur information about people that he is otherwise not really in touch with. The Dorrits and the Gowans are in Rome. Amy can tell that Pet is super lonely and that their house is not a home. Also, Gowan totally sucks and is a nasty, obnoxious jerk. Oh, and his painting of Dorrit is so awful that Amy is "not quite convinced I should have known from the likeness if I had not seen him doing it" . Ha! That's quite a slam from uber-nice Amy! Everything else about Gowan is also crappy. He is still doing that thing where everyone thinks he married way beneath him. Also, he's still hanging out with a gross French guy , who is way creepy. Oh, and - big news - Pet had a baby boy. Aw! And her parents are here. This is nice for her but creates tons of extra stress because they don't get along with Gowan. Amy isn't going to tell Arthur about any sights they've been seeing, since he's seen them already and probably knows more about them than she does. And in any case, she mostly only has one thought about everything she sees, which is, "man, I can't believe we were stuck in prison all that time while all these beautiful things were out here!" Sad. Amy tells Arthur that she constantly dreams about herself as a child dressed in Marshalsea rags - but transplanted into this new life. Even in the dreams she's all embarrassed about what she looks like as she comes to be with her family. Finally, Amy is very homesick and sad to be away from England.


prompt:
Chapter: The famous name of Merdle became, every day, more famous in the land.
Nobody knew that the Merdle of such high renown had ever done any good
to any one, alive or dead, or to any earthly thing; nobody knew that he
had any capacity or utterance of any sort in him, which had ever thrown,
    for any creature, the feeblest farthing-candle ray of light on any path
    of duty or diversion, pain or pleasure, toil or rest, fact or fancy,
    among the multiplicity of paths in the labyrinth trodden by the sons
    of Adam; nobody had the smallest reason for supposing the clay of which
    this object of worship was made, to be other than the commonest clay,
    with as clogged a wick smouldering inside of it as ever kept an image of
humanity from tumbling to pieces. All people knew (or thought they knew)
    that he had made himself immensely rich; and, for that reason alone,
    prostrated themselves before him, more degradedly and less excusably
    than the darkest savage creeps out of his hole in the ground to
    propitiate, in some log or reptile, the Deity of his benighted soul.

    Nay, the high priests of this worship had the man before them as
    a protest against their meanness. The multitude worshipped on
    trust--though always distinctly knowing why--but the officiators at the
    altar had the man habitually in their view. They sat at his feasts, and
    he sat at theirs. There was a spectre always attendant on him, saying to
    these high priests, 'Are such the signs you trust, and love to honour;
    this head, these eyes, this mode of speech, the tone and manner of this
    man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office, and the rulers of
    men. When half-a-dozen of you fall out by the ears, it seems that mother
    earth can give birth to no other rulers. Does your qualification lie in
    the superior knowledge of men which accepts, courts, and puffs this man?
    Or, if you are competent to judge aright the signs I never fail to
    show you when he appears among you, is your superior honesty your
    qualification?' Two rather ugly questions these, always going about
    town with Mr Merdle; and there was a tacit agreement that they must be
    stifled.

    In Mrs Merdle's absence abroad, Mr Merdle still kept the great house
    open for the passage through it of a stream Of visitors. A few of these
    took affable possession of the establishment. Three or four ladies of
    distinction and liveliness used to say to one another, 'Let us dine at
    our dear Merdle's next Thursday. Whom shall we have?' Our dear Merdle
    would then receive his instructions; and would sit heavily among the
    company at table and wander lumpishly about his drawing-rooms
    afterwards, only remarkable for appearing to have nothing to do with the
    entertainment beyond being in its way.

    The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man's life, relaxed
    nothing of his severity. He looked on at these dinners when the bosom
    was not there, as he looked on at other dinners when the bosom was
    there; and his eye was a basilisk to Mr Merdle. He was a hard man, and
    would never bate an ounce of plate or a bottle of wine. He would not
    allow a dinner to be given, unless it was up to his mark. He set forth
    the table for his own dignity. If the guests chose to partake of what
    was served, he saw no objection; but it was served for the maintenance
    of his rank. As he stood by the sideboard he seemed to announce, 'I have
    accepted office to look at this which is now before me, and to look at
    nothing less than this.' If he missed the presiding bosom, it was as a
    part of his own state of which he was, from unavoidable circumstances,
    temporarily deprived, just as he might have missed a centre-piece, or a
    choice wine-cooler, which had been sent to the Banker's.

    Mr Merdle issued invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was to
    be there, Mr Tite Barnacle was to be there, the pleasant young Barnacle
    was to be there; and the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who went
    about the provinces when the House was up, warbling the praises of their
    Chief, were to be represented there. It was understood to be a great
    occasion. Mr Merdle was going to take up the Barnacles. Some delicate
    little negotiations had occurred between him and the noble Decimus--the
    young Barnacle of engaging manners acting as negotiator--and Mr Merdle
    had decided to cast the weight of his great probity and great riches
    into the Barnacle scale. Jobbery was suspected by the malicious; perhaps
    because it was indisputable that if the adherence of the immortal Enemy
    of Mankind could have been secured by a job, the Barnacles would have
    jobbed him--for the good of the country, for the good of the country.

    Mrs Merdle had written to this magnificent spouse of hers, whom it was
    heresy to regard as anything less than all the British Merchants since
    the days of Whittington rolled into one, and gilded three feet deep all
    over--had written to this spouse of hers, several letters from Rome, in
    quick succession, urging upon him with importunity that now or never was
    the time to provide for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs Merdle had shown him that
    the case of Edmund was urgent, and that infinite advantages might result
    from his having some good thing directly. In the grammar of Mrs
    Merdle's verbs on this momentous subject, there was only one mood, the
    Imperative; and that Mood had only one Tense, the Present. Mrs Merdle's
    verbs were so pressingly presented to Mr Merdle to conjugate, that his
    sluggish blood and his long coat-cuffs became quite agitated.

    In which state of agitation, Mr Merdle, evasively rolling his eyes
    round the Chief Butler's shoes without raising them to the index of that
    stupendous creature's thoughts, had signified to him his intention of
    giving a special dinner: not a very large dinner, but a very special
    dinner. The Chief Butler had signified, in return, that he had no
    objection to look on at the most expensive thing in that way that could
    be done; and the day of the dinner was now come.

    Mr Merdle stood in one of his drawing-rooms, with his back to the fire,
    waiting for the arrival of his important guests. He seldom or never took
    the liberty of standing with his back to the fire unless he was quite
    alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he could not have done such
    a deed. He would have clasped himself by the wrists in that constabulary
    manner of his, and have paced up and down the hearthrug, or gone
    creeping about among the rich objects of furniture, if his oppressive
    retainer had appeared in the room at that very moment. The sly shadows
    which seemed to dart out of hiding when the fire rose, and to dart back
    into it when the fire fell, were sufficient witnesses of his making
    himself so easy. They were even more than sufficient, if his
    uncomfortable glances at them might be taken to mean anything.

    Mr Merdle's right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the
    evening paper was full of Mr Merdle. His wonderful enterprise, his
    wonderful wealth, his wonderful Bank, were the fattening food of the
    evening paper that night. The wonderful Bank, of which he was the chief
    projector, establisher, and manager, was the latest of the many Merdle
    wonders. So modest was Mr Merdle withal, in the midst of these splendid
    achievements, that he looked far more like a man in possession of his
    house under a distraint, than a commercial Colossus bestriding his own
    hearthrug, while the little ships were sailing into dinner.

    Behold the vessels coming into port! The engaging young Barnacle was the
    first arrival; but Bar overtook him on the staircase. Bar, strengthened
    as usual with his double eye-glass and his little jury droop, was
    overjoyed to see the engaging young Barnacle; and opined that we were
    going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to take a special
    argument?

    'Indeed,' said the sprightly young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand;
    'how so?'

    'Nay,' smiled Bar. 'If you don't know, how can I know? You are in the
    innermost sanctuary of the temple; I am one of the admiring concourse on
    the plain without.'

    Bar could be light in hand, or heavy in hand, according to the customer
    he had to deal with. With Ferdinand Barnacle he was gossamer. Bar was
    likewise always modest and self-depreciatory--in his way. Bar was a man
    of great variety; but one leading thread ran through the woof of all his
    patterns. Every man with whom he had to do was in his eyes a jury-man;
    and he must get that jury-man over, if he could.

    'Our illustrious host and friend,' said Bar; 'our shining mercantile
    star;--going into politics?'

    'Going? He has been in Parliament some time, you know,' returned the
    engaging young Barnacle.

    'True,' said Bar, with his light-comedy laugh for special jury-men,
    which was a very different thing from his low-comedy laugh for comic
    tradesmen on common juries: 'he has been in Parliament for some time.
    Yet hitherto our star has been a vacillating and wavering star? Humph?'

    An average witness would have been seduced by the Humph? into an
    affirmative answer, But Ferdinand Barnacle looked knowingly at Bar as he
    strolled up-stairs, and gave him no answer at all.

    'Just so, just so,' said Bar, nodding his head, for he was not to be put
    off in that way, 'and therefore I spoke of our sitting _in Banco_ to take
    a special argument--meaning this to be a high and solemn occasion, when,
    as Captain Macheath says, "the judges are met: a terrible show!" We
    lawyers are sufficiently liberal, you see, to quote the Captain, though
    the Captain is severe upon us. Nevertheless, I think I could put in
    evidence an admission of the Captain's,' said Bar, with a little jocose
    roll of his head; for, in his legal current of speech, he always assumed
    the air of rallying himself with the best grace in the world; 'an
    admission of the Captain's that Law, in the gross, is at least
    intended to be impartial. For what says the Captain, if I quote
    him correctly--and if not,' with a light-comedy touch of his double
    eye-glass on his companion's shoulder, 'my learned friend will set me
    right:

    "Since laws were made for every degree,
    To curb vice in others as well as in me,
    I wonder we ha'n't better company
    Upon Tyburn Tree!"'

    These words brought them to the drawing-room, where Mr Merdle stood
    before the fire. So immensely astounded was Mr Merdle by the entrance
    of Bar with such a reference in his mouth, that Bar explained himself
    to have been quoting Gay. 'Assuredly not one of our Westminster Hall
    authorities,' said he, 'but still no despicable one to a man possessing
    the largely-practical Mr Merdle's knowledge of the world.'

    Mr Merdle looked as if he thought he would say something, but
    subsequently looked as if he thought he wouldn't. The interval afforded
    time for Bishop to be announced.

    Bishop came in with meekness, and yet with a strong and rapid step as if
    he wanted to get his seven-league dress-shoes on, and go round the world
    to see that everybody was in a satisfactory state. Bishop had no idea
    that there was anything significant in the occasion. That was the most
    remarkable trait in his demeanour. He was crisp, fresh, cheerful,
    affable, bland; but so surprisingly innocent.

    Bar sidled up to prefer his politest inquiries in reference to the
    health of Mrs Bishop. Mrs Bishop had been a little unfortunate in the
    article of taking cold at a Confirmation, but otherwise was well. Young
    Mr Bishop was also well. He was down, with his young wife and little
    family, at his Cure of Souls.

    The representatives of the Barnacle Chorus dropped in next, and Mr
    Merdle's physician dropped in next. Bar, who had a bit of one eye and a
    bit of his double eye-glass for every one who came in at the door, no
    matter with whom he was conversing or what he was talking about, got
    among them all by some skilful means, without being seen to get at them,
    and touched each individual gentleman of the jury on his own individual
    favourite spot. With some of the Chorus, he laughed about the sleepy
    member who had gone out into the lobby the other night, and voted the
    wrong way: with others, he deplored that innovating spirit in the time
    which could not even be prevented from taking an unnatural interest in
    the public service and the public money: with the physician he had a
    word to say about the general health; he had also a little information
    to ask him for, concerning a professional man of unquestioned erudition
    and polished manners--but those credentials in their highest development
    he believed were the possession of other professors of the healing art
    (jury droop)--whom he had happened to have in the witness-box the day
    before yesterday, and from whom he had elicited in cross-examination
    that he claimed to be one of the exponents of this new mode of treatment
    which appeared to Bar to--eh?--well, Bar thought so; Bar had thought,
    and hoped, Physician would tell him so. Without presuming to decide
    where doctors disagreed, it did appear to Bar, viewing it as a question
    of common sense and not of so-called legal penetration, that this new
    system was--might be, in the presence of so great an authority--say,
    Humbug? Ah! Fortified by such encouragement, he could venture to say
    Humbug; and now Bar's mind was relieved.

    Mr Tite Barnacle, who, like Dr Johnson's celebrated acquaintance, had
    only one idea in his head and that was a wrong one, had appeared by this
    time. This eminent gentleman and Mr Merdle, seated diverse ways and with
    ruminating aspects on a yellow ottoman in the light of the fire,
    holding no verbal communication with each other, bore a strong general
    resemblance to the two cows in the Cuyp picture over against them.

    But now, Lord Decimus arrived. The Chief Butler, who up to this time
    had limited himself to a branch of his usual function by looking at the
    company as they entered (and that, with more of defiance than favour),
    put himself so far out of his way as to come up-stairs with him and
    announce him. Lord Decimus being an overpowering peer, a bashful young
    member of the Lower House who was the last fish but one caught by the
    Barnacles, and who had been invited on this occasion to commemorate his
    capture, shut his eyes when his Lordship came in.

    Lord Decimus, nevertheless, was glad to see the Member. He was also
    glad to see Mr Merdle, glad to see Bishop, glad to see Bar, glad to see
    Physician, glad to see Tite Barnacle, glad to see Chorus, glad to
    see Ferdinand his private secretary. Lord Decimus, though one of the
    greatest of the earth, was not remarkable for ingratiatory manners, and
    Ferdinand had coached him up to the point of noticing all the fellows
    he might find there, and saying he was glad to see them. When he had
    achieved this rush of vivacity and condescension, his Lordship composed
    himself into the picture after Cuyp, and made a third cow in the group.

    Bar, who felt that he had got all the rest of the jury and must now lay
    hold of the Foreman, soon came sidling up, double eye-glass in hand. Bar
    tendered the weather, as a subject neatly aloof from official reserve,
    for the Foreman's consideration. Bar said that he was told (as everybody
            always is told, though who tells them, and why, will ever remain a
            mystery), that there was to be no wall-fruit this year. Lord Decimus
    had not heard anything amiss of his peaches, but rather believed, if his
    people were correct, he was to have no apples. No apples? Bar was lost
    in astonishment and concern. It would have been all one to him, in
    reality, if there had not been a pippin on the surface of the earth, but
    his show of interest in this apple question was positively painful.
    Now, to what, Lord Decimus--for we troublesome lawyers loved to gather
    information, and could never tell how useful it might prove to us--to
    what, Lord Decimus, was this to be attributed? Lord Decimus could not
    undertake to propound any theory about it. This might have stopped
    another man; but Bar, sticking to him fresh as ever, said, 'As to pears,
    now?'

    Long after Bar got made Attorney-General, this was told of him as
    a master-stroke. Lord Decimus had a reminiscence about a pear-tree
    formerly growing in a garden near the back of his dame's house at Eton,
    upon which pear-tree the only joke of his life perennially bloomed. It
    was a joke of a compact and portable nature, turning on the difference
    between Eton pears and Parliamentary pairs; but it was a joke, a refined
    relish of which would seem to have appeared to Lord Decimus impossible
    to be had without a thorough and intimate acquaintance with the tree.
    Therefore, the story at first had no idea of such a tree, sir, then
    gradually found it in winter, carried it through the changing season,
    saw it bud, saw it blossom, saw it bear fruit, saw the fruit ripen; in
    short, cultivated the tree in that diligent and minute manner before it
    got out of the bed-room window to steal the fruit, that many thanks had
    been offered up by belated listeners for the trees having been planted
    and grafted prior to Lord Decimus's time. Bar's interest in apples was
    so overtopped by the wrapt suspense in which he pursued the changes
    of these pears, from the moment when Lord Decimus solemnly opened with
    'Your mentioning pears recalls to my remembrance a pear-tree,' down to
    the rich conclusion, 'And so we pass, through the various changes
    of life, from Eton pears to Parliamentary pairs,' that he had to go
    down-stairs with Lord Decimus, and even then to be seated next to him
    at table in order that he might hear the anecdote out. By that time, Bar
    felt that he had secured the Foreman, and might go to dinner with a good
    appetite.

    It was a dinner to provoke an appetite, though he had not had one. The
    rarest dishes, sumptuously cooked and sumptuously served; the choicest
    fruits; the most exquisite wines; marvels of workmanship in gold and
    silver, china and glass; innumerable things delicious to the senses of
    taste, smell, and sight, were insinuated into its composition. O, what
    a wonderful man this Merdle, what a great man, what a master man, how
    blessedly and enviably endowed--in one word, what a rich man!

    He took his usual poor eighteenpennyworth of food in his usual
    indigestive way, and had as little to say for himself as ever a
    wonderful man had. Fortunately Lord Decimus was one of those sublimities
    who have no occasion to be talked to, for they can be at any time
    sufficiently occupied with the contemplation of their own greatness.
    This enabled the bashful young Member to keep his eyes open long enough
    at a time to see his dinner. But, whenever Lord Decimus spoke, he shut
    them again.

    The agreeable young Barnacle, and Bar, were the talkers of the party.
    Bishop would have been exceedingly agreeable also, but that his
    innocence stood in his way. He was so soon left behind. When there was
    any little hint of anything being in the wind, he got lost directly.
    Worldly affairs were too much for him; he couldn't make them out at all.

    This was observable when Bar said, incidentally, that he was happy to
    have heard that we were soon to have the advantage of enlisting on
    the good side, the sound and plain sagacity--not demonstrative or
    ostentatious, but thoroughly sound and practical--of our friend Mr
    Sparkler.

    Ferdinand Barnacle laughed, and said oh yes, he believed so. A vote was
    a vote, and always acceptable.

    Bar was sorry to miss our good friend Mr Sparkler to-day, Mr Merdle.

    'He is away with Mrs Merdle,' returned that gentleman, slowly coming
    out of a long abstraction, in the course of which he had been fitting a
    tablespoon up his sleeve. 'It is not indispensable for him to be on the
    spot.'

    'The magic name of Merdle,' said Bar, with the jury droop, 'no doubt
    will suffice for all.'

    'Why--yes--I believe so,' assented Mr Merdle, putting the spoon aside,
    and clumsily hiding each of his hands in the coat-cuff of the other
    hand. 'I believe the people in my interest down there will not make any
    difficulty.'

    'Model people!' said Bar.

    'I am glad you approve of them,' said Mr Merdle.

    'And the people of those other two places, now,' pursued Bar, with a
    bright twinkle in his keen eye, as it slightly turned in the direction
    of his magnificent neighbour; 'we lawyers are always curious, always
    inquisitive, always picking up odds and ends for our patchwork minds,
    since there is no knowing when and where they may fit into some
    corner;--the people of those other two places now? Do they yield so
    laudably to the vast and cumulative influence of such enterprise and
    such renown; do those little rills become absorbed so quietly
    and easily, and, as it were by the influence of natural laws, so
    beautifully, in the swoop of the majestic stream as it flows upon its
    wondrous way enriching the surrounding lands; that their course is
    perfectly to be calculated, and distinctly to be predicated?'

    Mr Merdle, a little troubled by Bar's eloquence, looked fitfully about
    the nearest salt-cellar for some moments, and then said hesitating:

    'They are perfectly aware, sir, of their duty to Society. They will
    return anybody I send to them for that purpose.'

    'Cheering to know,' said Bar. 'Cheering to know.'

    The three places in question were three little rotten holes in this
    Island, containing three little ignorant, drunken, guzzling, dirty,
    out-of-the-way constituencies, that had reeled into Mr Merdle's pocket.
    Ferdinand Barnacle laughed in his easy way, and airily said they were
    a nice set of fellows. Bishop, mentally perambulating among paths of
    peace, was altogether swallowed up in absence of mind.

    'Pray,' asked Lord Decimus, casting his eyes around the table, 'what
    is this story I have heard of a gentleman long confined in a debtors'
    prison proving to be of a wealthy family, and having come into the
    inheritance of a large sum of money? I have met with a variety of
    allusions to it. Do you know anything of it, Ferdinand?'

    'I only know this much,' said Ferdinand, 'that he has given the
    Department with which I have the honour to be associated;' this
    sparkling young Barnacle threw off the phrase sportively, as who should
    say, We know all about these forms of speech, but we must keep it up,
    we must keep the game alive; 'no end of trouble, and has put us into
    innumerable fixes.'

    'Fixes?' repeated Lord Decimus, with a majestic pausing and pondering
    on the word that made the bashful Member shut his eyes quite tight.
    'Fixes?'

    'A very perplexing business indeed,' observed Mr Tite Barnacle, with an
    air of grave resentment.

    'What,' said Lord Decimus, 'was the character of his business; what was
    the nature of these--a--Fixes, Ferdinand?'

    'Oh, it's a good story, as a story,' returned that gentleman; 'as good
    a thing of its kind as need be. This Mr Dorrit (his name is Dorrit) had
    incurred a responsibility to us, ages before the fairy came out of
    the Bank and gave him his fortune, under a bond he had signed for the
    performance of a contract which was not at all performed. He was a
    partner in a house in some large way--spirits, or buttons, or wine, or
    blacking, or oatmeal, or woollen, or pork, or hooks and eyes, or iron,
    or treacle, or shoes, or something or other that was wanted for troops,
    or seamen, or somebody--and the house burst, and we being among
    the creditors, detainees were lodged on the part of the Crown in a
    scientific manner, and all the rest of it. When the fairy had appeared
    and he wanted to pay us off, Egad we had got into such an exemplary
    state of checking and counter-checking, signing and counter-signing,
    that it was six months before we knew how to take the money, or how to
    give a receipt for it. It was a triumph of public business,' said this
    handsome young Barnacle, laughing heartily, 'You never saw such a lot of
    forms in your life. "Why," the attorney said to me one day, "if I wanted
    this office to give me two or three thousand pounds instead of take it,
    I couldn't have more trouble about it." "You are right, old fellow,"
    I told him, "and in future you'll know that we have something to do
    here."' The pleasant young Barnacle finished by once more laughing
    heartily. He was a very easy, pleasant fellow indeed, and his manners
    were exceedingly winning.

    Mr Tite Barnacle's view of the business was of a less airy character. He
    took it ill that Mr Dorrit had troubled the Department by wanting to
    pay the money, and considered it a grossly informal thing to do after so
    many years. But Mr Tite Barnacle was a buttoned-up man, and consequently
    a weighty one. All buttoned-up men are weighty. All buttoned-up men are
    believed in. Whether or no the reserved and never-exercised power of
    unbuttoning, fascinates mankind; whether or no wisdom is supposed to
    condense and augment when buttoned up, and to evaporate when unbuttoned;
    it is certain that the man to whom importance is accorded is the
    buttoned-up man. Mr Tite Barnacle never would have passed for half his
    current value, unless his coat had been always buttoned-up to his white
    cravat.

    'May I ask,' said Lord Decimus, 'if Mr Darrit--or Dorrit--has any
    family?'

    Nobody else replying, the host said, 'He has two daughters, my lord.'

    'Oh! you are acquainted with him?' asked Lord Decimus.

    'Mrs Merdle is. Mr Sparkler is, too. In fact,' said Mr Merdle, 'I rather
    believe that one of the young ladies has made an impression on Edmund
    Sparkler. He is susceptible, and--I--think--the conquest--' Here Mr
    Merdle stopped, and looked at the table-cloth, as he usually did when he
    found himself observed or listened to.

    Bar was uncommonly pleased to find that the Merdle family, and this
    family, had already been brought into contact. He submitted, in a low
    voice across the table to Bishop, that it was a kind of analogical
    illustration of those physical laws, in virtue of which Like flies to
    Like. He regarded this power of attraction in wealth to draw wealth
    to it, as something remarkably interesting and curious--something
    indefinably allied to the loadstone and gravitation. Bishop, who
    had ambled back to earth again when the present theme was broached,
    acquiesced. He said it was indeed highly important to Society that one
    in the trying situation of unexpectedly finding himself invested with a
    power for good or for evil in Society, should become, as it were, merged
    in the superior power of a more legitimate and more gigantic growth, the
influence of which (as in the case of our friend at whose board we sat)
    was habitually exercised in harmony with the best interests of Society.
    Thus, instead of two rival and contending flames, a larger and a lesser,
    each burning with a lurid and uncertain glare, we had a blended and a
    softened light whose genial ray diffused an equable warmth throughout
    the land. Bishop seemed to like his own way of putting the case very
    much, and rather dwelt upon it; Bar, meanwhile (not to throw away a
            jury-man), making a show of sitting at his feet and feeding on his
    precepts.

    The dinner and dessert being three hours long, the bashful Member cooled
    in the shadow of Lord Decimus faster than he warmed with food and drink,
    and had but a chilly time of it. Lord Decimus, like a tall tower in a
    flat country, seemed to project himself across the table-cloth, hide the
    light from the honourable Member, cool the honourable Member's marrow,
    and give him a woeful idea of distance. When he asked this unfortunate
    traveller to take wine, he encompassed his faltering steps with the
    gloomiest of shades; and when he said, 'Your health sir!' all around him
    was barrenness and desolation.

    At length Lord Decimus, with a coffee-cup in his hand, began to hover
    about among the pictures, and to cause an interesting speculation to
    arise in all minds as to the probabilities of his ceasing to hover, and
    enabling the smaller birds to flutter up-stairs; which could not be
    done until he had urged his noble pinions in that direction. After some
    delay, and several stretches of his wings which came to nothing, he
    soared to the drawing-rooms.

    And here a difficulty arose, which always does arise when two people
    are specially brought together at a dinner to confer with one another.
    Everybody (except Bishop, who had no suspicion of it) knew perfectly
    well that this dinner had been eaten and drunk, specifically to the end
    that Lord Decimus and Mr Merdle should have five minutes' conversation
    together. The opportunity so elaborately prepared was now arrived, and
    it seemed from that moment that no mere human ingenuity could so much as
    get the two chieftains into the same room. Mr Merdle and his noble guest
    persisted in prowling about at opposite ends of the perspective. It was
    in vain for the engaging Ferdinand to bring Lord Decimus to look at the
    bronze horses near Mr Merdle. Then Mr Merdle evaded, and wandered away.
    It was in vain for him to bring Mr Merdle to Lord Decimus to tell him
    the history of the unique Dresden vases. Then Lord Decimus evaded and
    wandered away, while he was getting his man up to the mark.

    'Did you ever see such a thing as this?' said Ferdinand to Bar when he
    had been baffled twenty times.

    'Often,' returned Bar.

    'Unless I butt one of them into an appointed corner, and you butt the
    other,' said Ferdinand,'it will not come off after all.'

    'Very good,' said Bar. 'I'll butt Merdle, if you like; but not my lord.'

    Ferdinand laughed, in the midst of his vexation. 'Confound them both!'
    said he, looking at his watch. 'I want to get away. Why the deuce can't
    they come together! They both know what they want and mean to do. Look
    at them!'

    They were still looming at opposite ends of the perspective, each with
    an absurd pretence of not having the other on his mind, which could not
    have been more transparently ridiculous though his real mind had been
    chalked on his back. Bishop, who had just now made a third with Bar and
    Ferdinand, but whose innocence had again cut him out of the subject and
    washed him in sweet oil, was seen to approach Lord Decimus and glide
    into conversation.

    'I must get Merdle's doctor to catch and secure him, I suppose,' said
    Ferdinand; 'and then I must lay hold of my illustrious kinsman, and
    decoy him if I can--drag him if I can't--to the conference.'

    'Since you do me the honour,' said Bar, with his slyest smile, to ask
    for my poor aid, it shall be yours with the greatest pleasure. I don't
    think this is to be done by one man. But if you will undertake to pen
    my lord into that furthest drawing-room where he is now so profoundly
    engaged, I will undertake to bring our dear Merdle into the presence,
    without the possibility of getting away.'

    'Done!' said Ferdinand. 'Done!' said Bar.

    Bar was a sight wondrous to behold, and full of matter, when, jauntily
    waving his double eye-glass by its ribbon, and jauntily drooping to an
    Universe of Jurymen, he, in the most accidental manner ever seen,
    found himself at Mr Merdle's shoulder, and embraced that opportunity of
    mentioning a little point to him, on which he particularly wished to
    be guided by the light of his practical knowledge. (Here he took Mr
            Merdle's arm and walked him gently away.) A banker, whom we would call
    A. B., advanced a considerable sum of money, which we would call fifteen
    thousand pounds, to a client or customer of his, whom he would call P.
    Q. (Here, as they were getting towards Lord Decimus, he held Mr Merdle
            tight.) As a security for the repayment of this advance to P. Q. whom
    we would call a widow lady, there were placed in A. B.'s hands the
    title-deeds of a freehold estate, which we would call Blinkiter Doddles.
    Now, the point was this. A limited right of felling and lopping in
    the woods of Blinkiter Doddles, lay in the son of P. Q. then past his
    majority, and whom we would call X. Y.--but really this was too bad! In
    the presence of Lord Decimus, to detain the host with chopping our dry
    chaff of law, was really too bad! Another time! Bar was truly repentant,
    and would not say another syllable. Would Bishop favour him with
    half-a-dozen words? (He had now set Mr Merdle down on a couch, side by
            side with Lord Decimus, and to it they must go, now or never.)

    And now the rest of the company, highly excited and interested, always
    excepting Bishop, who had not the slightest idea that anything was going
    on, formed in one group round the fire in the next drawing-room, and
    pretended to be chatting easily on the infinite variety of small topics,
    while everybody's thoughts and eyes were secretly straying towards the
    secluded pair. The Chorus were excessively nervous, perhaps as labouring
    under the dreadful apprehension that some good thing was going to
    be diverted from them! Bishop alone talked steadily and evenly. He
    conversed with the great Physician on that relaxation of the throat with
    which young curates were too frequently afflicted, and on the means
    of lessening the great prevalence of that disorder in the church.
    Physician, as a general rule, was of opinion that the best way to avoid
    it was to know how to read, before you made a profession of reading.
    Bishop said dubiously, did he really think so? And Physician said,
    decidedly, yes he did.

    Ferdinand, meanwhile, was the only one of the party who skirmished on
    the outside of the circle; he kept about mid-way between it and the
    two, as if some sort of surgical operation were being performed by Lord
    Decimus on Mr Merdle, or by Mr Merdle on Lord Decimus, and his services
    might at any moment be required as Dresser. In fact, within a quarter
    of an hour Lord Decimus called to him 'Ferdinand!' and he went, and
    took his place in the conference for some five minutes more. Then a
    half-suppressed gasp broke out among the Chorus; for Lord Decimus rose
    to take his leave. Again coached up by Ferdinand to the point of making
    himself popular, he shook hands in the most brilliant manner with the
    whole company, and even said to Bar, 'I hope you were not bored by my
    pears?' To which Bar retorted, 'Eton, my lord, or Parliamentary?' neatly
    showing that he had mastered the joke, and delicately insinuating that
    he could never forget it while his life remained.

    All the grave importance that was buttoned up in Mr Tite Barnacle, took
    itself away next; and Ferdinand took himself away next, to the opera.
    Some of the rest lingered a little, marrying golden liqueur glasses to
    Buhl tables with sticky rings; on the desperate chance of Mr Merdle's
    saying something. But Merdle, as usual, oozed sluggishly and muddily
    about his drawing-room, saying never a word.

    In a day or two it was announced to all the town, that Edmund Sparkler,
    Esquire, son-in-law of the eminent Mr Merdle of worldwide renown, was
    made one of the Lords of the Circumlocution Office; and proclamation was
    issued, to all true believers, that this admirable appointment was to
    be hailed as a graceful and gracious mark of homage, rendered by the
    graceful and gracious Decimus, to that commercial interest which must
    ever in a great commercial country--and all the rest of it, with
    blast of trumpet. So, bolstered by this mark of Government homage, the
    wonderful Bank and all the other wonderful undertakings went on and went
    up; and gapers came to Harley Street, Cavendish Square, only to look at
    the house where the golden wonder lived.

    And when they saw the Chief Butler looking out at the hall-door in
    his moments of condescension, the gapers said how rich he looked, and
    wondered how much money he had in the wonderful Bank. But, if they had
    known that respectable Nemesis better, they would not have wondered
    about it, and might have stated the amount with the utmost precision.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Oh, Merdle, Merdle, Merdle. Everyone worships the ground he walks on because of his money. Which is sort of a crazy reason, especially since none of that money does anyone any good. While Mrs. Merdle is gone, society still hangs out at the Merdle house. Merdle himself lurks there too, but since he's not really all that social, and since he's terrified of his butler, he kind of keeps in the shadows. But suddenly Merdle starts getting urgent letters from Mrs. Merdle saying that Edmund Sparkler needs to finally be set up with some kind of job. And what she means by job is an appointment of some sort where he will be paid money for not doing much of anything. So Merdle decides to organize a small dinner for some powerful people. Basically, the idea is that at this dinner, Merdle and Lord Decimus will do a quid pro quo, a totally illegal and unethical trade of power. Merdle owns three rotten boroughs, each of which is supposed to elect a member of Parliament. He will get whomever Decimus wants elected in exchange for a position for Sparkler in the Circumlocution Office. Merdle and Decimus are social idiots. Everyone does their best to keep up the party around them, since this is such an important meeting. Bar, the lawyer, is particularly impressive and able to chat up every single person there. Finally, after dinner, everyone goes upstairs and waits for the Merdle-Decimus convo. There is no convo. They are so inept that they can't move toward each other in the room. It's hilariously ridiculous. Finally, Bar steers Merdle toward Decimus, and Frederic Barnacle steers Decimus toward Merdle. They have a chat. Hooray! Business accomplished. The next day the papers announce that Edmund Sparkler has been appointed to a high Circumlocution Office position. Maybe Shmoop is a little cynical, but we're betting this is the way government still sometimes works.


prompt:
Chapter: That it is at least as difficult to stay a moral infection as a physical
one; that such a disease will spread with the malignity and rapidity of
the Plague; that the contagion, when it has once made head, will spare
no pursuit or condition, but will lay hold on people in the soundest
health, and become developed in the most unlikely constitutions: is
a fact as firmly established by experience as that we human creatures
breathe an atmosphere. A blessing beyond appreciation would be conferred
upon mankind, if the tainted, in whose weakness or wickedness these
virulent disorders are bred, could be instantly seized and placed in
close confinement (not to say summarily smothered) before the poison is
communicable.

As a vast fire will fill the air to a great distance with its roar, so
the sacred flame which the mighty Barnacles had fanned caused the air to
resound more and more with the name of Merdle. It was deposited on every
lip, and carried into every ear. There never was, there never had
been, there never again should be, such a man as Mr Merdle. Nobody,
    as aforesaid, knew what he had done; but everybody knew him to be the
    greatest that had appeared.

    Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, where there was not one unappropriated
    halfpenny, as lively an interest was taken in this paragon of men as on
    the Stock Exchange. Mrs Plornish, now established in the small grocery
    and general trade in a snug little shop at the crack end of the Yard,
    at the top of the steps, with her little old father and Maggy acting
    as assistants, habitually held forth about him over the counter in
    conversation with her customers. Mr Plornish, who had a small share in a
    small builder's business in the neighbourhood, said, trowel in hand, on
    the tops of scaffolds and on the tiles of houses, that people did tell
    him as Mr Merdle was _the_ one, mind you, to put us all to rights in
    respects of that which all on us looked to, and to bring us all safe
    home as much as we needed, mind you, fur toe be brought. Mr Baptist,
    sole lodger of Mr and Mrs Plornish was reputed in whispers to lay by
    the savings which were the result of his simple and moderate life,
    for investment in one of Mr Merdle's certain enterprises. The female
    Bleeding Hearts, when they came for ounces of tea, and hundredweights of
    talk, gave Mrs Plornish to understand, That how, ma'am, they had heard
    from their cousin Mary Anne, which worked in the line, that his lady's
    dresses would fill three waggons. That how she was as handsome a lady,
    ma'am, as lived, no matter wheres, and a busk like marble itself. That
    how, according to what they was told, ma'am, it was her son by a former
    husband as was took into the Government; and a General he had been, and
    armies he had marched again and victory crowned, if all you heard was to
    be believed. That how it was reported that Mr Merdle's words had been,
    that if they could have made it worth his while to take the whole
    Government he would have took it without a profit, but that take it he
    could not and stand a loss. That how it was not to be expected, ma'am,
    that he should lose by it, his ways being, as you might say and utter
    no falsehood, paved with gold; but that how it was much to be regretted
    that something handsome hadn't been got up to make it worth his while;
    for it was such and only such that knowed the heighth to which the bread
    and butchers' meat had rose, and it was such and only such that both
    could and would bring that heighth down.

    So rife and potent was the fever in Bleeding Heart Yard, that Mr
    Pancks's rent-days caused no interval in the patients. The disease took
    the singular form, on those occasions, of causing the infected to find
    an unfathomable excuse and consolation in allusions to the magic name.

    'Now, then!' Mr Pancks would say, to a defaulting lodger. 'Pay up!
    Come on!'

    'I haven't got it, Mr Pancks,' Defaulter would reply. 'I tell you the
    truth, sir, when I say I haven't got so much as a single sixpence of it
    to bless myself with.'

    'This won't do, you know,' Mr Pancks would retort. 'You don't expect it
    _will_ do; do you?'

    Defaulter would admit, with a low-spirited 'No, sir,' having no such
    expectation.

    'My proprietor isn't going to stand this, you know,' Mr Pancks would
    proceed. 'He don't send me here for this. Pay up! Come!'

    The Defaulter would make answer, 'Ah, Mr Pancks. If I was the rich
    gentleman whose name is in everybody's mouth--if my name was Merdle,
    sir--I'd soon pay up, and be glad to do it.'

    Dialogues on the rent-question usually took place at the house-doors
    or in the entries, and in the presence of several deeply interested
    Bleeding Hearts. They always received a reference of this kind with a
    low murmur of response, as if it were convincing; and the Defaulter,
    however black and discomfited before, always cheered up a little in
    making it.

    'If I was Mr Merdle, sir, you wouldn't have cause to complain of me
    then. No, believe me!' the Defaulter would proceed with a shake of the
    head. 'I'd pay up so quick then, Mr Pancks, that you shouldn't have to
    ask me.'

    The response would be heard again here, implying that it was impossible
    to say anything fairer, and that this was the next thing to paying the
    money down.

    Mr Pancks would be now reduced to saying as he booked the case, 'Well!
    You'll have the broker in, and be turned out; that's what'll happen to
    you. It's no use talking to me about Mr Merdle. You are not Mr Merdle,
    any more than I am.'

    'No, sir,' the Defaulter would reply. 'I only wish you _were_ him, sir.'

    The response would take this up quickly; replying with great feeling,
    'Only wish you _were_ him, sir.'

    'You'd be easier with us if you were Mr Merdle, sir,' the Defaulter
    would go on with rising spirits, 'and it would be better for all
    parties. Better for our sakes, and better for yours, too. You wouldn't
    have to worry no one, then, sir. You wouldn't have to worry us, and you
    wouldn't have to worry yourself. You'd be easier in your own mind, sir,
    and you'd leave others easier, too, you would, if you were Mr Merdle.'

    Mr Pancks, in whom these impersonal compliments produced an irresistible
    sheepishness, never rallied after such a charge. He could only bite
    his nails and puff away to the next Defaulter. The responsive Bleeding
    Hearts would then gather round the Defaulter whom he had just abandoned,
    and the most extravagant rumours would circulate among them, to their
    great comfort, touching the amount of Mr Merdle's ready money.

    From one of the many such defeats of one of many rent-days, Mr Pancks,
    having finished his day's collection, repaired with his note-book
    under his arm to Mrs Plornish's corner. Mr Pancks's object was not
    professional, but social. He had had a trying day, and wanted a little
    brightening. By this time he was on friendly terms with the Plornish
    family, having often looked in upon them at similar seasons, and borne
    his part in recollections of Miss Dorrit.

    Mrs Plornish's shop-parlour had been decorated under her own eye, and
    presented, on the side towards the shop, a little fiction in which Mrs
    Plornish unspeakably rejoiced. This poetical heightening of the parlour
    consisted in the wall being painted to represent the exterior of a
    thatched cottage; the artist having introduced (in as effective a manner
            as he found compatible with their highly disproportionate dimensions)
    the real door and window. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were
    depicted as flourishing with great luxuriance on this rustic dwelling,
    while a quantity of dense smoke issuing from the chimney indicated good
    cheer within, and also, perhaps, that it had not been lately swept.
    A faithful dog was represented as flying at the legs of the friendly
    visitor, from the threshold; and a circular pigeon-house, enveloped in a
    cloud of pigeons, arose from behind the garden-paling. On the door (when
            it was shut), appeared the semblance of a brass-plate, presenting
    the inscription, Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish; the partnership
    expressing man and wife. No Poetry and no Art ever charmed the
    imagination more than the union of the two in this counterfeit cottage
    charmed Mrs Plornish. It was nothing to her that Plornish had a habit
    of leaning against it as he smoked his pipe after work, when his
    hat blotted out the pigeon-house and all the pigeons, when his back
    swallowed up the dwelling, when his hands in his pockets uprooted the
    blooming garden and laid waste the adjacent country. To Mrs Plornish, it
    was still a most beautiful cottage, a most wonderful deception; and
    it made no difference that Mr Plornish's eye was some inches above the
    level of the gable bed-room in the thatch. To come out into the shop
    after it was shut, and hear her father sing a song inside this cottage,
    was a perfect Pastoral to Mrs Plornish, the Golden Age revived. And
    truly if that famous period had been revived, or had ever been at all,
    it may be doubted whether it would have produced many more heartily
    admiring daughters than the poor woman.

    Warned of a visitor by the tinkling bell at the shop-door, Mrs Plornish
    came out of Happy Cottage to see who it might be. 'I guessed it was
    you, Mr Pancks,' said she, 'for it's quite your regular night; ain't it?
    Here's father, you see, come out to serve at the sound of the bell, like
    a brisk young shopman. Ain't he looking well? Father's more pleased to
    see you than if you was a customer, for he dearly loves a gossip; and
    when it turns upon Miss Dorrit, he loves it all the more. You never
    heard father in such voice as he is at present,' said Mrs Plornish, her
    own voice quavering, she was so proud and pleased. 'He gave us Strephon
    last night to that degree that Plornish gets up and makes him this
    speech across the table. "John Edward Nandy," says Plornish to father,
    "I never heard you come the warbles as I have heard you come the warbles
    this night." An't it gratifying, Mr Pancks, though; really?'

    Mr Pancks, who had snorted at the old man in his friendliest manner,
    replied in the affirmative, and casually asked whether that lively Altro
    chap had come in yet? Mrs Plornish answered no, not yet, though he had
    gone to the West-End with some work, and had said he should be back
    by tea-time. Mr Pancks was then hospitably pressed into Happy Cottage,
    where he encountered the elder Master Plornish just come home from
    school. Examining that young student, lightly, on the educational
    proceedings of the day, he found that the more advanced pupils who
    were in the large text and the letter M, had been set the copy 'Merdle,
    Millions.'

    'And how are _you_ getting on, Mrs Plornish,' said Pancks, 'since we're
    mentioning millions?'

    'Very steady, indeed, sir,' returned Mrs Plornish. 'Father, dear, would
    you go into the shop and tidy the window a little bit before tea, your
    taste being so beautiful?'

    John Edward Nandy trotted away, much gratified, to comply with his
    daughter's request. Mrs Plornish, who was always in mortal terror
    of mentioning pecuniary affairs before the old gentleman, lest any
    disclosure she made might rouse his spirit and induce him to run away to
    the workhouse, was thus left free to be confidential with Mr Pancks.

    'It's quite true that the business is very steady indeed,' said Mrs
    Plornish, lowering her voice; 'and has a excellent connection. The only
    thing that stands in its way, sir, is the Credit.'

    This drawback, rather severely felt by most people who engaged in
    commercial transactions with the inhabitants of Bleeding Heart Yard,
    was a large stumbling-block in Mrs Plornish's trade. When Mr Dorrit had
    established her in the business, the Bleeding Hearts had shown an amount
    of emotion and a determination to support her in it, that did honour to
    human nature. Recognising her claim upon their generous feelings as one
    who had long been a member of their community, they pledged themselves,
    with great feeling, to deal with Mrs Plornish, come what would and
    bestow their patronage on no other establishment. Influenced by these
    noble sentiments, they had even gone out of their way to purchase little
    luxuries in the grocery and butter line to which they were unaccustomed;
    saying to one another, that if they did stretch a point, was it not for
    a neighbour and a friend, and for whom ought a point to be stretched if
    not for such? So stimulated, the business was extremely brisk, and the
    articles in stock went off with the greatest celerity. In short, if the

    Bleeding Hearts had but paid, the undertaking would have been a complete
    success; whereas, by reason of their exclusively confining themselves to
    owing, the profits actually realised had not yet begun to appear in the
    books.

    Mr Pancks was making a very porcupine of himself by sticking his hair
    up in the contemplation of this state of accounts, when old Mr Nandy,
    re-entering the cottage with an air of mystery, entreated them to come
    and look at the strange behaviour of Mr Baptist, who seemed to have met
    with something that had scared him. All three going into the shop, and
    watching through the window, then saw Mr Baptist, pale and agitated, go
    through the following extraordinary performances. First, he was observed
    hiding at the top of the steps leading down into the Yard, and peeping
    up and down the street with his head cautiously thrust out close to the
    side of the shop-door. After very anxious scrutiny, he came out of
    his retreat, and went briskly down the street as if he were going away
    altogether; then, suddenly turned about, and went, at the same pace, and
    with the same feint, up the street. He had gone no further up the street
    than he had gone down, when he crossed the road and disappeared. The
    object of this last manoeuvre was only apparent, when his entering the
    shop with a sudden twist, from the steps again, explained that he
    had made a wide and obscure circuit round to the other, or Doyce and
    Clennam, end of the Yard, and had come through the Yard and bolted in.
    He was out of breath by that time, as he might well be, and his heart
    seemed to jerk faster than the little shop-bell, as it quivered and
    jingled behind him with his hasty shutting of the door.

    'Hallo, old chap!' said Mr Pancks. 'Altro, old boy! What's the matter?'

    Mr Baptist, or Signor Cavalletto, understood English now almost as well
    as Mr Pancks himself, and could speak it very well too. Nevertheless,
    Mrs Plornish, with a pardonable vanity in that accomplishment of hers
    which made her all but Italian, stepped in as interpreter.

    'E ask know,' said Mrs Plornish, 'what go wrong?'

    'Come into the happy little cottage, Padrona,' returned Mr Baptist,
    imparting great stealthiness to his flurried back-handed shake of his
    right forefinger. 'Come there!'

    Mrs Plornish was proud of the title Padrona, which she regarded as
    signifying: not so much Mistress of the house, as Mistress of the
    Italian tongue. She immediately complied with Mr Baptist's request, and
    they all went into the cottage.

    'E ope you no fright,' said Mrs Plornish then, interpreting Mr Pancks
    in a new way with her usual fertility of resource. 'What appen? Peaka
    Padrona!'

    'I have seen some one,' returned Baptist. 'I have rincontrato him.'

    'Im? Oo him?' asked Mrs Plornish.

    'A bad man. A baddest man. I have hoped that I should never see him
    again.'

    'Ow you know him bad?' asked Mrs Plornish.

    'It does not matter, Padrona. I know it too well.'

    'E see you?' asked Mrs Plornish.

    'No. I hope not. I believe not.'

    'He says,' Mrs Plornish then interpreted, addressing her father and
    Pancks with mild condescension, 'that he has met a bad man, but he hopes
    the bad man didn't see him--Why,' inquired Mrs Plornish, reverting to
    the Italian language, 'why ope bad man no see?'

    'Padrona, dearest,' returned the little foreigner whom she so
    considerately protected, 'do not ask, I pray. Once again I say it
    matters not. I have fear of this man. I do not wish to see him, I do not
    wish to be known of him--never again! Enough, most beautiful. Leave it.'

    The topic was so disagreeable to him, and so put his usual liveliness to
    the rout, that Mrs Plornish forbore to press him further: the rather as
    the tea had been drawing for some time on the hob. But she was not the
    less surprised and curious for asking no more questions; neither was
    Mr Pancks, whose expressive breathing had been labouring hard since the
    entrance of the little man, like a locomotive engine with a great load
    getting up a steep incline. Maggy, now better dressed than of yore,
    though still faithful to the monstrous character of her cap, had been
    in the background from the first with open mouth and eyes, which staring
    and gaping features were not diminished in breadth by the untimely
    suppression of the subject. However, no more was said about it, though
    much appeared to be thought on all sides: by no means excepting the two
    young Plornishes, who partook of the evening meal as if their eating
    the bread and butter were rendered almost superfluous by the painful
    probability of the worst of men shortly presenting himself for the
    purpose of eating them. Mr Baptist, by degrees began to chirp a little;
    but never stirred from the seat he had taken behind the door and close
    to the window, though it was not his usual place. As often as the little
    bell rang, he started and peeped out secretly, with the end of the
    little curtain in his hand and the rest before his face; evidently not
    at all satisfied but that the man he dreaded had tracked him through all
    his doublings and turnings, with the certainty of a terrible bloodhound.

    The entrance, at various times, of two or three customers and of Mr
    Plornish, gave Mr Baptist just enough of this employment to keep the
    attention of the company fixed upon him. Tea was over, and the children
    were abed, and Mrs Plornish was feeling her way to the dutiful proposal
    that her father should favour them with Chloe, when the bell rang again,
    and Mr Clennam came in.

    Clennam had been poring late over his books and letters; for the
    waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office ravaged his time sorely.
    Over and above that, he was depressed and made uneasy by the late
    occurrence at his mother's. He looked worn and solitary. He felt so,
    too; but, nevertheless, was returning home from his counting-house by
    that end of the Yard to give them the intelligence that he had received
    another letter from Miss Dorrit.

    The news made a sensation in the cottage which drew off the general
    attention from Mr Baptist. Maggy, who pushed her way into the foreground
    immediately, would have seemed to draw in the tidings of her Little
    Mother equally at her ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, but that the last
    were obstructed by tears. She was particularly delighted when Clennam
    assured her that there were hospitals, and very kindly conducted
    hospitals, in Rome. Mr Pancks rose into new distinction in virtue of
    being specially remembered in the letter. Everybody was pleased and
    interested, and Clennam was well repaid for his trouble.

    'But you are tired, sir. Let me make you a cup of tea,' said Mrs
    Plornish, 'if you'd condescend to take such a thing in the cottage; and
    many thanks to you, too, I am sure, for bearing us in mind so kindly.'

    Mr Plornish deeming it incumbent on him, as host, to add his personal
    acknowledgments, tendered them in the form which always expressed his
    highest ideal of a combination of ceremony with sincerity.

    'John Edward Nandy,' said Mr Plornish, addressing the old gentleman.
    'Sir. It's not too often that you see unpretending actions without a
    spark of pride, and therefore when you see them give grateful honour
    unto the same, being that if you don't, and live to want 'em, it follows
    serve you right.'

    To which Mr Nandy replied:

    'I am heartily of your opinion, Thomas, and which your opinion is the
    same as mine, and therefore no more words and not being backwards
    with that opinion, which opinion giving it as yes, Thomas, yes, is the
    opinion in which yourself and me must ever be unanimously jined by all,
    and where there is not difference of opinion there can be none but one
    opinion, which fully no, Thomas, Thomas, no!'

    Arthur, with less formality, expressed himself gratified by their high
    appreciation of so very slight an attention on his part; and explained
    as to the tea that he had not yet dined, and was going straight home to
    refresh after a long day's labour, or he would have readily accepted the
    hospitable offer. As Mr Pancks was somewhat noisily getting his steam
    up for departure, he concluded by asking that gentleman if he would walk
    with him? Mr Pancks said he desired no better engagement, and the two
    took leave of Happy Cottage.

    'If you will come home with me, Pancks,' said Arthur, when they got into
    the street, 'and will share what dinner or supper there is, it will
    be next door to an act of charity; for I am weary and out of sorts
    to-night.'

    'Ask me to do a greater thing than that,' said Pancks, 'when you want it
    done, and I'll do it.'

    Between this eccentric personage and Clennam, a tacit understanding and
    accord had been always improving since Mr Pancks flew over Mr Rugg's
    back in the Marshalsea Yard. When the carriage drove away on the
    memorable day of the family's departure, these two had looked after it
    together, and had walked slowly away together. When the first letter
    came from little Dorrit, nobody was more interested in hearing of
    her than Mr Pancks. The second letter, at that moment in Clennam's
    breast-pocket, particularly remembered him by name. Though he had never
    before made any profession or protestation to Clennam, and though what
    he had just said was little enough as to the words in which it was
    expressed, Clennam had long had a growing belief that Mr Pancks, in
    his own odd way, was becoming attached to him. All these strings
    intertwining made Pancks a very cable of anchorage that night.

    'I am quite alone,' Arthur explained as they walked on. 'My partner is
    away, busily engaged at a distance on his branch of our business, and
    you shall do just as you like.'

    'Thank you. You didn't take particular notice of little Altro just now;
    did you?' said Pancks.

    'No. Why?'

    'He's a bright fellow, and I like him,' said Pancks. 'Something has
    gone amiss with him to-day. Have you any idea of any cause that can have
    overset him?'

    'You surprise me! None whatever.'

    Mr Pancks gave his reasons for the inquiry. Arthur was quite unprepared
    for them, and quite unable to suggest an explanation of them.

    'Perhaps you'll ask him,' said Pancks, 'as he's a stranger?'

    'Ask him what?' returned Clennam.

    'What he has on his mind.'

    'I ought first to see for myself that he has something on his mind, I
    think,' said Clennam. 'I have found him in every way so diligent, so
    grateful (for little enough), and so trustworthy, that it might look
    like suspecting him. And that would be very unjust.'

    'True,' said Pancks. 'But, I say! You oughtn't to be anybody's
    proprietor, Mr Clennam. You're much too delicate.'

    'For the matter of that,' returned Clennam laughing, 'I have not a large
    proprietary share in Cavalletto. His carving is his livelihood. He keeps
    the keys of the Factory, watches it every alternate night, and acts as a
    sort of housekeeper to it generally; but we have little work in the way
    of his ingenuity, though we give him what we have. No! I am rather his
    adviser than his proprietor. To call me his standing counsel and his
    banker would be nearer the fact. Speaking of being his banker, is it not
    curious, Pancks, that the ventures which run just now in so many
    people's heads, should run even in little Cavalletto's?'

    'Ventures?' retorted Pancks, with a snort. 'What ventures?'

    'These Merdle enterprises.'

    'Oh! Investments,' said Pancks. 'Ay, ay! I didn't know you were speaking
    of investments.'

    His quick way of replying caused Clennam to look at him, with a doubt
    whether he meant more than he said. As it was accompanied, however, with
    a quickening of his pace and a corresponding increase in the labouring
    of his machinery, Arthur did not pursue the matter, and they soon
    arrived at his house.

    A dinner of soup and a pigeon-pie, served on a little round table before
    the fire, and flavoured with a bottle of good wine, oiled Mr Pancks's
    works in a highly effective manner; so that when Clennam produced his
    Eastern pipe, and handed Mr Pancks another Eastern pipe, the latter
    gentleman was perfectly comfortable.

    They puffed for a while in silence, Mr Pancks like a steam-vessel
    with wind, tide, calm water, and all other sea-going conditions in her
    favour. He was the first to speak, and he spoke thus:

    'Yes. Investments is the word.'

    Clennam, with his former look, said 'Ah!'

    'I am going back to it, you see,' said Pancks.

    'Yes. I see you are going back to it,' returned Clennam, wondering why.

    'Wasn't it a curious thing that they should run in little Altro's head?
    Eh?' said Pancks as he smoked. 'Wasn't that how you put it?'

    'That was what I said.'

    'Ay! But think of the whole Yard having got it. Think of their
    all meeting me with it, on my collecting days, here and there and
    everywhere. Whether they pay, or whether they don't pay. Merdle, Merdle,
    Merdle. Always Merdle.'

    'Very strange how these runs on an infatuation prevail,' said Arthur.

    'An't it?' returned Pancks. After smoking for a minute or so, more drily
    than comported with his recent oiling, he added: 'Because you see these
    people don't understand the subject.'

    'Not a bit,' assented Clennam.

    'Not a bit,' cried Pancks. 'Know nothing of figures. Know nothing of
    money questions. Never made a calculation. Never worked it, sir!'

    'If they had--' Clennam was going on to say; when Mr Pancks, without
    change of countenance, produced a sound so far surpassing all his usual
    efforts, nasal or bronchial, that he stopped.

    'If they had?' repeated Pancks in an inquiring tone.

    'I thought you--spoke,' said Arthur, hesitating what name to give the
    interruption.

    'Not at all,' said Pancks. 'Not yet. I may in a minute. If they had?'

    'If they had,' observed Clennam, who was a little at a loss how to take
    his friend, 'why, I suppose they would have known better.'

    'How so, Mr Clennam?' Pancks asked quickly, and with an odd effect of
    having been from the commencement of the conversation loaded with the
    heavy charge he now fired off. 'They're right, you know. They don't mean
    to be, but they're right.'

    'Right in sharing Cavalletto's inclination to speculate with Mr Merdle?'

    'Per-fectly, sir,' said Pancks. 'I've gone into it. I've made the
    calculations. I've worked it. They're safe and genuine.' Relieved by
    having got to this, Mr Pancks took as long a pull as his lungs would
    permit at his Eastern pipe, and looked sagaciously and steadily at
    Clennam while inhaling and exhaling too.

    In those moments, Mr Pancks began to give out the dangerous infection
    with which he was laden. It is the manner of communicating these
    diseases; it is the subtle way in which they go about.

    'Do you mean, my good Pancks,' asked Clennam emphatically, 'that you
    would put that thousand pounds of yours, let us say, for instance, out
    at this kind of interest?'

    'Certainly,' said Pancks. 'Already done it, sir.'

    Mr Pancks took another long inhalation, another long exhalation, another
    long sagacious look at Clennam.

    'I tell you, Mr Clennam, I've gone into it,' said Pancks. 'He's a man of
    immense resources--enormous capital--government influence. They're the
    best schemes afloat. They're safe. They're certain.'

    'Well!' returned Clennam, looking first at him gravely and then at the
    fire gravely. 'You surprise me!'

    'Bah!' Pancks retorted. 'Don't say that, sir. It's what you ought to do
    yourself! Why don't you do as I do?'

    Of whom Mr Pancks had taken the prevalent disease, he could no more have
    told than if he had unconsciously taken a fever. Bred at first, as many
    physical diseases are, in the wickedness of men, and then disseminated
    in their ignorance, these epidemics, after a period, get communicated to
    many sufferers who are neither ignorant nor wicked. Mr Pancks might, or
    might not, have caught the illness himself from a subject of this class;
    but in this category he appeared before Clennam, and the infection he
    threw off was all the more virulent.

    'And you have really invested,' Clennam had already passed to that word,
    'your thousand pounds, Pancks?'

    'To be sure, sir!' replied Pancks boldly, with a puff of smoke. 'And
    only wish it ten!'

    Now, Clennam had two subjects lying heavy on his lonely mind that night;
    the one, his partner's long-deferred hope; the other, what he had seen
    and heard at his mother's. In the relief of having this companion,
    and of feeling that he could trust him, he passed on to both, and both
    brought him round again, with an increase and acceleration of force, to
    his point of departure.

    It came about in the simplest manner. Quitting the investment subject,
    after an interval of silent looking at the fire through the smoke of his
    pipe, he told Pancks how and why he was occupied with the great National
    Department. 'A hard case it has been, and a hard case it is on Doyce,'
    he finished by saying, with all the honest feeling the topic roused in
    him.

    'Hard indeed,' Pancks acquiesced. 'But you manage for him, Mr Clennam?'

    'How do you mean?'

    'Manage the money part of the business?'

    'Yes. As well as I can.'

    'Manage it better, sir,' said Pancks. 'Recompense him for his toils and
    disappointments. Give him the chances of the time. He'll never benefit
    himself in that way, patient and preoccupied workman. He looks to you,
    sir.'

    'I do my best, Pancks,' returned Clennam, uneasily. 'As to duly weighing
    and considering these new enterprises of which I have had no experience,
    I doubt if I am fit for it, I am growing old.'

    'Growing old?' cried Pancks. 'Ha, ha!'

    There was something so indubitably genuine in the wonderful laugh, and
    series of snorts and puffs, engendered in Mr Pancks's astonishment at,
    and utter rejection of, the idea, that his being quite in earnest could
    not be questioned.

    'Growing old?' cried Pancks. 'Hear, hear, hear! Old? Hear him, hear
    him!'

    The positive refusal expressed in Mr Pancks's continued snorts, no less
    than in these exclamations, to entertain the sentiment for a single
    instant, drove Arthur away from it. Indeed, he was fearful of something
    happening to Mr Pancks in the violent conflict that took place between
    the breath he jerked out of himself and the smoke he jerked into
    himself. This abandonment of the second topic threw him on the third.

    'Young, old, or middle-aged, Pancks,' he said, when there was a
    favourable pause, 'I am in a very anxious and uncertain state; a state
    that even leads me to doubt whether anything now seeming to belong to
    me, may be really mine. Shall I tell you how this is? Shall I put a
    great trust in you?'

    'You shall, sir,' said Pancks, 'if you believe me worthy of it.'

    'I do.'

    'You may!' Mr Pancks's short and sharp rejoinder, confirmed by the
    sudden outstretching of his coaly hand, was most expressive and
    convincing. Arthur shook the hand warmly.

    He then, softening the nature of his old apprehensions as much as was
    possible consistently with their being made intelligible and never
    alluding to his mother by name, but speaking vaguely of a relation
    of his, confided to Mr Pancks a broad outline of the misgivings he
    entertained, and of the interview he had witnessed. Mr Pancks listened
    with such interest that, regardless of the charms of the Eastern pipe,
    he put it in the grate among the fire-irons, and occupied his hands
    during the whole recital in so erecting the loops and hooks of hair
    all over his head, that he looked, when it came to a conclusion, like a
    journeyman Hamlet in conversation with his father's spirit.

    'Brings me back, sir,' was his exclamation then, with a startling touch
    on Clennam's knee, 'brings me back, sir, to the Investments! I don't
    say anything of your making yourself poor to repair a wrong you never
    committed. That's you. A man must be himself. But I say this,
    fearing you may want money to save your own blood from exposure and
    disgrace--make as much as you can!'

    Arthur shook his head, but looked at him thoughtfully too.

    'Be as rich as you can, sir,' Pancks adjured him with a powerful
    concentration of all his energies on the advice. 'Be as rich as you
    honestly can. It's your duty. Not for your sake, but for the sake of
    others. Take time by the forelock. Poor Mr Doyce (who really _is_ growing
            old) depends upon you. Your relative depends upon you. You don't know
    what depends upon you.'

    'Well, well, well!' returned Arthur. 'Enough for to-night.'

    'One word more, Mr Clennam,' retorted Pancks, 'and then enough for
    to-night. Why should you leave all the gains to the gluttons, knaves,
    and impostors? Why should you leave all the gains that are to be got to
    my proprietor and the like of him? Yet you're always doing it. When I
    say you, I mean such men as you. You know you are. Why, I see it
    every day of my life. I see nothing else. It's my business to see it.
    Therefore I say,' urged Pancks, 'Go in and win!'

    'But what of Go in and lose?' said Arthur.

    'Can't be done, sir,' returned Pancks. 'I have looked into it. Name up
    everywhere--immense resources--enormous capital--great position--high
    connection--government influence. Can't be done!'

    Gradually, after this closing exposition, Mr Pancks subsided; allowed
    his hair to droop as much as it ever would droop on the utmost
    persuasion; reclaimed the pipe from the fire-irons, filled it anew, and
    smoked it out. They said little more; but were company to one another in
    silently pursuing the same subjects, and did not part until midnight.
    On taking his leave, Mr Pancks, when he had shaken hands with Clennam,
    worked completely round him before he steamed out at the door. This,
    Arthur received as an assurance that he might implicitly rely on Pancks,
    if he ever should come to need assistance; either in any of the matters
    of which they had spoken that night, or any other subject that could in
    any way affect himself.

    At intervals all next day, and even while his attention was fixed on
    other things, he thought of Mr Pancks's investment of his thousand
    pounds, and of his having 'looked into it.' He thought of Mr Pancks's
    being so sanguine in this matter, and of his not being usually of a
    sanguine character. He thought of the great National Department, and of
    the delight it would be to him to see Doyce better off. He thought
    of the darkly threatening place that went by the name of Home in his
    remembrance, and of the gathering shadows which made it yet more darkly
    threatening than of old. He observed anew that wherever he went, he
    saw, or heard, or touched, the celebrated name of Merdle; he found it
    difficult even to remain at his desk a couple of hours, without having
    it presented to one of his bodily senses through some agency or other.
    He began to think it was curious too that it should be everywhere, and
    that nobody but he should seem to have any mistrust of it. Though indeed
    he began to remember, when he got to this, even _he_ did not mistrust it;
    he had only happened to keep aloof from it.

    Such symptoms, when a disease of the kind is rife, are usually the signs
    of sickening.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The narrator does a little thing about infections - mental ones are kind of like physical ones, spreading and spreading until they are epidemics. So. Merdle, Merdle, Merdle. His name is on everyone's lips, even the poor people in Bleeding Heart Yard. When Pancks goes around to collect rent, those who don't have money say they wish they were Mr. Merdle. Or that Pancks himself were Mr. Merdle. Either way, it would be much better for everyone. After a hard day of harassing people for rent money, Pancks goes to visit the Plornishes, with whom he's now friends. The Plornishes have a little grocery business . Maggy lives with them, as does Old Nandy. Their little house has been decorated with a trompe l'oeil mural of a country cottage. Mrs. Plornish loves it, and is so happy that her father is out of the workhouse. One of the kids comes in with homework - which involves spelling out the words "Merdle" and "Millions" as a way to practice the letter M. But when Pancks asks about business, she confesses that it's not so great. They sell stuff just fine, but everyone buys on credit, and then can't pay. While they are chatting, Pancks sees Mr. Baptist doing something odd out the window. He looks terrified and is running up and down the Yard, as if looking around for someone in fear. Finally he runs into the shop. He explains that he has seen a very, very bad man - whom he personally knows to be "a baddest man" , and whom he hoped never to run into ever again. Hmm... who might that be? They calm him down, and Arthur comes in. He tells them all about Little Dorrit and her letters, and everyone is psyched to hear about her. Finally Arthur and Pancks leave, and Arthur invites Pancks over, since Doyce is away on business. They have a nice little evening, then Pancks suddenly starts talking about Merdle and how everyone is talking about him. Arthur is all, I know, right? But Pancks unexpectedly reveals that he has actually invested all of his savings in a Merdle enterprise. Whoa! Arthur is kind of dubious, but Pancks tells him that he's run all the numbers, and it's a sure bet. Arthur then fesses up that he's worried that all his money might actually belong to someone else, and tells Pancks about his suspicions about his mom and the weirdness with Little Dorrit and Blandois. Pancks meanwhile tells him not to be so selfish and to think what a bunch of money could do for Doyce. After Pancks leaves, Arthur thinks more and more about the idea of putting all of the firm's money into the Merdle machine. He's been infected.