Chapter: The family had been a month or two at Venice, when Mr Dorrit, who was
much among Counts and Marquises, and had but scant leisure, set an hour
of one day apart, beforehand, for the purpose of holding some conference
with Mrs General.

The time he had reserved in his mind arriving, he sent Mr Tinkler, his
valet, to Mrs General's apartment (which would have absorbed about a
        third of the area of the Marshalsea), to present his compliments to that
lady, and represent him as desiring the favour of an interview. It being
that period of the forenoon when the various members of the family had
coffee in their own chambers, some couple of hours before assembling at
breakfast in a faded hall which had once been sumptuous, but was now
the prey of watery vapours and a settled melancholy, Mrs General was
accessible to the valet. That envoy found her on a little square of
carpet, so extremely diminutive in reference to the size of her stone
and marble floor that she looked as if she might have had it spread for
the trying on of a ready-made pair of shoes; or as if she had come into
possession of the enchanted piece of carpet, bought for forty purses by
one of the three princes in the Arabian Nights, and had that moment been
transported on it, at a wish, into a palatial saloon with which it had
no connection.

Mrs General, replying to the envoy, as she set down her empty
coffee-cup, that she was willing at once to proceed to Mr Dorrit's
apartment, and spare him the trouble of coming to her (which, in his
        gallantry, he had proposed), the envoy threw open the door, and
escorted Mrs General to the presence. It was quite a walk, by mysterious
staircases and corridors, from Mrs General's apartment,--hoodwinked by
a narrow side street with a low gloomy bridge in it, and dungeon-like
opposite tenements, their walls besmeared with a thousand downward
stains and streaks, as if every crazy aperture in them had been weeping
tears of rust into the Adriatic for centuries--to Mr Dorrit's apartment:
with a whole English house-front of window, a prospect of beautiful
church-domes rising into the blue sky sheer out of the water which
reflected them, and a hushed murmur of the Grand Canal laving the
doorways below, where his gondolas and gondoliers attended his pleasure,
         drowsily swinging in a little forest of piles.

         Mr Dorrit, in a resplendent dressing-gown and cap--the dormant grub that
         had so long bided its time among the Collegians had burst into a rare
         butterfly--rose to receive Mrs General. A chair to Mrs General. An
         easier chair, sir; what are you doing, what are you about, what do you
         mean? Now, leave us!

         'Mrs General,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I took the liberty--'

         'By no means,' Mrs General interposed. 'I was quite at your disposition.
         I had had my coffee.'

         '--I took the liberty,' said Mr Dorrit again, with the magnificent
         placidity of one who was above correction, 'to solicit the favour of
         a little private conversation with you, because I feel rather worried
         respecting my--ha--my younger daughter. You will have observed a great
         difference of temperament, madam, between my two daughters?'

         Said Mrs General in response, crossing her gloved hands (she was never
                 without gloves, and they never creased and always fitted), 'There is a
         great difference.'

         'May I ask to be favoured with your view of it?' said Mr Dorrit, with a
         deference not incompatible with majestic serenity.

         'Fanny,' returned Mrs General, 'has force of character and
         self-reliance. Amy, none.'

         None? O Mrs General, ask the Marshalsea stones and bars. O Mrs General,
         ask the milliner who taught her to work, and the dancing-master who
         taught her sister to dance. O Mrs General, Mrs General, ask me, her
         father, what I owe her; and hear my testimony touching the life of this
         slighted little creature from her childhood up!

         No such adjuration entered Mr. Dorrit's head. He looked at Mrs
         General, seated in her usual erect attitude on her coach-box behind the
         proprieties, and he said in a thoughtful manner, 'True, madam.'

         'I would not,' said Mrs General, 'be understood to say, observe,
         that there is nothing to improve in Fanny. But there is material
         there--perhaps, indeed, a little too much.'

         'Will you be kind enough, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'to be--ha--more
         explicit? I do not quite understand my elder daughter's having--hum--too
         much material. What material?'

         'Fanny,' returned Mrs General, 'at present forms too many opinions.
         Perfect breeding forms none, and is never demonstrative.'

         Lest he himself should be found deficient in perfect breeding, Mr Dorrit
         hastened to reply, 'Unquestionably, madam, you are right.' Mrs General
         returned, in her emotionless and expressionless manner, 'I believe so.'

         'But you are aware, my dear madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'that my daughters
         had the misfortune to lose their lamented mother when they were very
         young; and that, in consequence of my not having been until lately
         the recognised heir to my property, they have lived with me as
         a comparatively poor, though always proud, gentleman, in--ha
         hum--retirement!'

         'I do not,' said Mrs General, 'lose sight of the circumstance.'

         'Madam,' pursued Mr Dorrit, 'of my daughter Fanny, under her present
         guidance and with such an example constantly before her--'

(Mrs General shut her eyes.)

    --'I have no misgivings. There is adaptability of character in Fanny.
    But my younger daughter, Mrs General, rather worries and vexes my
    thoughts. I must inform you that she has always been my favourite.'

    'There is no accounting,' said Mrs General, 'for these partialities.'

    'Ha--no,' assented Mr Dorrit. 'No. Now, madam, I am troubled by noticing
    that Amy is not, so to speak, one of ourselves. She does not care to go
    about with us; she is lost in the society we have here; our tastes
    are evidently not her tastes. Which,' said Mr Dorrit, summing up with
    judicial gravity, 'is to say, in other words, that there is something
    wrong in--ha--Amy.'

    'May we incline to the supposition,' said Mrs General, with a little
    touch of varnish, 'that something is referable to the novelty of the
    position?'

    'Excuse me, madam,' observed Mr Dorrit, rather quickly. 'The daughter
    of a gentleman, though--ha--himself at one time comparatively far from
    affluent--comparatively--and herself reared in--hum--retirement, need
    not of necessity find this position so very novel.'

    'True,' said Mrs General, 'true.'

    'Therefore, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I took the liberty' (he laid an
            emphasis on the phrase and repeated it, as though he stipulated, with
            urbane firmness, that he must not be contradicted again), 'I took the
    liberty of requesting this interview, in order that I might mention the
    topic to you, and inquire how you would advise me?'

    'Mr Dorrit,' returned Mrs General, 'I have conversed with Amy several
    times since we have been residing here, on the general subject of the
    formation of a demeanour. She has expressed herself to me as wondering
    exceedingly at Venice. I have mentioned to her that it is better not to
    wonder. I have pointed out to her that the celebrated Mr Eustace, the
    classical tourist, did not think much of it; and that he compared the
    Rialto, greatly to its disadvantage, with Westminster and Blackfriars
    Bridges. I need not add, after what you have said, that I have not yet
    found my arguments successful. You do me the honour to ask me what to
    advise. It always appears to me (if this should prove to be a baseless
            assumption, I shall be pardoned), that Mr Dorrit has been accustomed to
    exercise influence over the minds of others.'

    'Hum--madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I have been at the head of--ha of
    a considerable community. You are right in supposing that I am not
    unaccustomed to--an influential position.'

    'I am happy,' returned Mrs General, 'to be so corroborated. I would
    therefore the more confidently recommend that Mr Dorrit should speak to
    Amy himself, and make his observations and wishes known to her. Being
    his favourite, besides, and no doubt attached to him, she is all the
    more likely to yield to his influence.'

    'I had anticipated your suggestion, madam,' said Mr Dorrit,
    'but--ha--was not sure that I might--hum--not encroach on--'

    'On my province, Mr Dorrit?' said Mrs General, graciously. 'Do not
    mention it.'

    'Then, with your leave, madam,' resumed Mr Dorrit, ringing his little
    bell to summon his valet, 'I will send for her at once.'

    'Does Mr Dorrit wish me to remain?'

    'Perhaps, if you have no other engagement, you would not object for a
    minute or two--'

    'Not at all.'

    So, Tinkler the valet was instructed to find Miss Amy's maid, and to
    request that subordinate to inform Miss Amy that Mr Dorrit wished to
    see her in his own room. In delivering this charge to Tinkler, Mr Dorrit
    looked severely at him, and also kept a jealous eye upon him until he
    went out at the door, mistrusting that he might have something in his
    mind prejudicial to the family dignity; that he might have even got wind
    of some Collegiate joke before he came into the service, and might be
    derisively reviving its remembrance at the present moment. If Tinkler
    had happened to smile, however faintly and innocently, nothing would
    have persuaded Mr Dorrit, to the hour of his death, but that this was
    the case. As Tinkler happened, however, very fortunately for himself, to
    be of a serious and composed countenance, he escaped the secret danger
    that threatened him. And as on his return--when Mr Dorrit eyed him
    again--he announced Miss Amy as if she had come to a funeral, he left a
    vague impression on Mr Dorrit's mind that he was a well-conducted young
    fellow, who had been brought up in the study of his Catechism by a
    widowed mother.

    'Amy,' said Mr Dorrit, 'you have just now been the subject of some
    conversation between myself and Mrs General. We agree that you scarcely
    seem at home here. Ha--how is this?'

    A pause.

    'I think, father, I require a little time.'

    'Papa is a preferable mode of address,' observed Mrs General. 'Father is
    rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a pretty form to
    the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very
    good words for the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it
    serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to
    yourself in company--on entering a room, for instance--Papa, potatoes,
    poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.'

    'Pray, my child,' said Mr Dorrit, 'attend to the--hum--precepts of Mrs
    General.'

    Poor Little Dorrit, with a rather forlorn glance at that eminent
    varnisher, promised to try.

    'You say, Amy,' pursued Mr Dorrit, 'that you think you require time.
    Time for what?'

    Another pause.

    'To become accustomed to the novelty of my life, was all I meant,' said
    Little Dorrit, with her loving eyes upon her father; whom she had very
    nearly addressed as poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her desire
    to submit herself to Mrs General and please him.

    Mr Dorrit frowned, and looked anything but pleased. 'Amy,' he returned,
    'it appears to me, I must say, that you have had abundance of time for
    that. Ha--you surprise me. You disappoint me. Fanny has conquered any
    such little difficulties, and--hum--why not you?'

    'I hope I shall do better soon,' said Little Dorrit.

    'I hope so,' returned her father. 'I--ha--I most devoutly hope so, Amy.
    I sent for you, in order that I might say--hum--impressively say, in
    the presence of Mrs General, to whom we are all so much indebted
    for obligingly being present among us, on--ha--on this or any other
    occasion,' Mrs General shut her eyes, 'that I--ha hum--am not pleased
    with you. You make Mrs General's a thankless task. You--ha--embarrass
    me very much. You have always (as I have informed Mrs General) been my
    favourite child; I have always made you a--hum--a friend and companion;
    in return, I beg--I--ha--I _do_ beg, that you accommodate yourself
    better to--hum--circumstances, and dutifully do what becomes your--your
    station.'

    Mr Dorrit was even a little more fragmentary than usual, being excited
    on the subject and anxious to make himself particularly emphatic.

    'I do beg,' he repeated, 'that this may be attended to, and that you
    will seriously take pains and try to conduct yourself in a manner both
    becoming your position as--ha--Miss Amy Dorrit, and satisfactory to
    myself and Mrs General.'

    That lady shut her eyes again, on being again referred to; then, slowly
    opening them and rising, added these words:

    'If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of
    my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have
    no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking,
    as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at
    vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them by a
    very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing
    disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing
    in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive
    of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A
    truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything
    that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.' Having delivered
    this exalted sentiment, Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and
    retired with an expression of mouth indicative of Prunes and Prism.

    Little Dorrit, whether speaking or silent, had preserved her quiet
    earnestness and her loving look. It had not been clouded, except for a
    passing moment, until now. But now that she was left alone with him
    the fingers of her lightly folded hands were agitated, and there was
    repressed emotion in her face.

    Not for herself. She might feel a little wounded, but her care was not
    for herself. Her thoughts still turned, as they always had turned, to
    him. A faint misgiving, which had hung about her since their accession
    to fortune, that even now she could never see him as he used to be
    before the prison days, had gradually begun to assume form in her mind.
    She felt that, in what he had just now said to her and in his whole
    bearing towards her, there was the well-known shadow of the Marshalsea
    wall. It took a new shape, but it was the old sad shadow. She began
    with sorrowful unwillingness to acknowledge to herself that she was
    not strong enough to keep off the fear that no space in the life of man
    could overcome that quarter of a century behind the prison bars. She had
    no blame to bestow upon him, therefore: nothing to reproach him with,
    no emotions in her faithful heart but great compassion and unbounded
    tenderness.

    This is why it was, that, even as he sat before her on his sofa, in the
    brilliant light of a bright Italian day, the wonderful city without and
    the splendours of an old palace within, she saw him at the moment in the
    long-familiar gloom of his Marshalsea lodging, and wished to take her
    seat beside him, and comfort him, and be again full of confidence with
    him, and of usefulness to him. If he divined what was in her thoughts,
    his own were not in tune with it. After some uneasy moving in his seat,
    he got up and walked about, looking very much dissatisfied.

    'Is there anything else you wish to say to me, dear father?'

    'No, no. Nothing else.'

    'I am sorry you have not been pleased with me, dear. I hope you will not
    think of me with displeasure now. I am going to try, more than ever, to
    adapt myself as you wish to what surrounds me--for indeed I have tried
    all along, though I have failed, I know.'

    'Amy,' he returned, turning short upon her. 'You--ha--habitually hurt
    me.'

    'Hurt you, father! I!'

    'There is a--hum--a topic,' said Mr Dorrit, looking all about the
    ceiling of the room, and never at the attentive, uncomplainingly shocked
    face, 'a painful topic, a series of events which I wish--ha--altogether
    to obliterate. This is understood by your sister, who has already
    remonstrated with you in my presence; it is understood by your brother;
    it is understood by--ha hum--by every one of delicacy and sensitiveness
    except yourself--ha--I am sorry to say, except yourself. You,
    Amy--hum--you alone and only you--constantly revive the topic, though
    not in words.'

    She laid her hand on his arm. She did nothing more. She gently touched
    him. The trembling hand may have said, with some expression, 'Think of
    me, think how I have worked, think of my many cares!' But she said not a
    syllable herself.

    There was a reproach in the touch so addressed to him that she had
    not foreseen, or she would have withheld her hand. He began to justify
    himself in a heated, stumbling, angry manner, which made nothing of it.

    'I was there all those years. I was--ha--universally acknowledged as
    the head of the place. I--hum--I caused you to be respected there, Amy.
    I--ha hum--I gave my family a position there. I deserve a return. I
    claim a return. I say, sweep it off the face of the earth and begin
    afresh. Is that much? I ask, is _that_ much?'

    He did not once look at her, as he rambled on in this way; but
    gesticulated at, and appealed to, the empty air.

    'I have suffered. Probably I know how much I have suffered better than
    any one--ha--I say than any one! If _I_ can put that aside, if _I_ can
    eradicate the marks of what I have endured, and can emerge before the
    world--a--ha--gentleman unspoiled, unspotted--is it a great deal to
    expect--I say again, is it a great deal to expect--that my children
    should--hum--do the same and sweep that accursed experience off the face
    of the earth?'

    In spite of his flustered state, he made all these exclamations in a
    carefully suppressed voice, lest the valet should overhear anything.

    'Accordingly, they do it. Your sister does it. Your brother does it. You
    alone, my favourite child, whom I made the friend and companion of my
    life when you were a mere--hum--Baby, do not do it. You alone say you
    can't do it. I provide you with valuable assistance to do it. I attach
    an accomplished and highly bred lady--ha--Mrs General, to you, for the
    purpose of doing it. Is it surprising that I should be displeased? Is it
    necessary that I should defend myself for expressing my displeasure?
    No!'

    Notwithstanding which, he continued to defend himself, without any
    abatement of his flushed mood.

    'I am careful to appeal to that lady for confirmation, before I express
    any displeasure at all. I--hum--I necessarily make that appeal within
    limited bounds, or I--ha--should render legible, by that lady, what I
    desire to be blotted out. Am I selfish? Do I complain for my own sake?
    No. No. Principally for--ha hum--your sake, Amy.'

    This last consideration plainly appeared, from his manner of pursuing
    it, to have just that instant come into his head.

    'I said I was hurt. So I am. So I--ha--am determined to be, whatever
    is advanced to the contrary. I am hurt that my daughter, seated in
    the--hum--lap of fortune, should mope and retire and proclaim herself
    unequal to her destiny. I am hurt that she should--ha--systematically
    reproduce what the rest of us blot out; and seem--hum--I had almost said
    positively anxious--to announce to wealthy and distinguished society
    that she was born and bred in--ha hum--a place that I myself decline to
    name. But there is no inconsistency--ha--not the least, in my feeling
    hurt, and yet complaining principally for your sake, Amy. I do; I say
    again, I do. It is for your sake that I wish you, under the auspices of
    Mrs General, to form a--hum--a surface. It is for your sake that I wish
    you to have a--ha--truly refined mind, and (in the striking words of
            Mrs General) to be ignorant of everything that is not perfectly proper,
    placid, and pleasant.'

    He had been running down by jerks, during his last speech, like a
    sort of ill-adjusted alarum. The touch was still upon his arm. He fell
    silent; and after looking about the ceiling again for a little while,
    looked down at her. Her head drooped, and he could not see her face; but
    her touch was tender and quiet, and in the expression of her dejected
    figure there was no blame--nothing but love. He began to whimper, just
    as he had done that night in the prison when she afterwards sat at
    his bedside till morning; exclaimed that he was a poor ruin and a poor
    wretch in the midst of his wealth; and clasped her in his arms. 'Hush,
    hush, my own dear! Kiss me!' was all she said to him. His tears
    were soon dried, much sooner than on the former occasion; and he was
    presently afterwards very high with his valet, as a way of righting
    himself for having shed any.

    With one remarkable exception, to be recorded in its place, this was
    the only time, in his life of freedom and fortune, when he spoke to his
    daughter Amy of the old days.

    But, now, the breakfast hour arrived; and with it Miss Fanny from her
    apartment, and Mr Edward from his apartment. Both these young persons of
    distinction were something the worse for late hours. As to Miss Fanny,
    she had become the victim of an insatiate mania for what she called
    'going into society;'and would have gone into it head-foremost fifty
    times between sunset and sunrise, if so many opportunities had been at
    her disposal. As to Mr Edward, he, too, had a large acquaintance, and
    was generally engaged (for the most part, in diceing circles, or others
            of a kindred nature), during the greater part of every night. For this
    gentleman, when his fortunes changed, had stood at the great advantage
    of being already prepared for the highest associates, and having little
    to learn: so much was he indebted to the happy accidents which had made
    him acquainted with horse-dealing and billiard-marking.

    At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old
    gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have
    practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other
    inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration
    to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated,
    but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections
    from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the
    sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered
    that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no
    longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new
    habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted
    paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who
            had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might
            not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was
            bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned
    Venetians. It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them;
    whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he
    confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the
    strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great
    exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the
    first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these
    attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often
    accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old
    man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these
    excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture
    to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances,
    silently presenting her to the noble Venetians.

    It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having
    seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they
    had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, 'I forget the name,' said
    he. 'I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?'

    '_I_ remember 'em well enough,' said the latter.

    'I should think so,' observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and
    a glance at her sister. 'But they would not have been recalled to our
    remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn't tumbled over the subject.'

    'My dear, what a curious phrase,' said Mrs General. 'Would not
    inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?'

    'Thank you very much, Mrs General,' returned the young lady, 'no, I
    think not. On the whole I prefer my own expression.'

    This was always Miss Fanny's way of receiving a suggestion from Mrs
    General. But she always stored it up in her mind, and adopted it at
    another time.

    'I should have mentioned our having met Mr and Mrs Gowan, Fanny,' said
    Little Dorrit, 'even if Uncle had not. I have scarcely seen you since,
    you know. I meant to have spoken of it at breakfast; because I should
    like to pay a visit to Mrs Gowan, and to become better acquainted with
    her, if Papa and Mrs General do not object.'

    'Well, Amy,' said Fanny, 'I am sure I am glad to find you at last
    expressing a wish to become better acquainted with anybody in Venice.
    Though whether Mr and Mrs Gowan are desirable acquaintances, remains to
    be determined.'

    'Mrs Gowan I spoke of, dear.'

    'No doubt,' said Fanny. 'But you can't separate her from her husband, I
    believe, without an Act of Parliament.'

    'Do you think, Papa,' inquired Little Dorrit, with diffidence and
    hesitation, 'there is any objection to my making this visit?'

    'Really,' he replied, 'I--ha--what is Mrs General's view?'

    Mrs General's view was, that not having the honour of any acquaintance
    with the lady and gentleman referred to, she was not in a position
    to varnish the present article. She could only remark, as a general
    principle observed in the varnishing trade, that much depended on the
    quarter from which the lady under consideration was accredited to a
    family so conspicuously niched in the social temple as the family of
    Dorrit.

    At this remark the face of Mr Dorrit gloomed considerably. He was about
    (connecting the accrediting with an obtrusive person of the name
     of Clennam, whom he imperfectly remembered in some former state of
     existence) to black-ball the name of Gowan finally, when Edward Dorrit,
    Esquire, came into the conversation, with his glass in his eye, and the
    preliminary remark of 'I say--you there! Go out, will you!'--which was
    addressed to a couple of men who were handing the dishes round, as a
    courteous intimation that their services could be temporarily dispensed
    with.

    Those menials having obeyed the mandate, Edward Dorrit, Esquire,
    proceeded.

    'Perhaps it's a matter of policy to let you all know that these
    Gowans--in whose favour, or at least the gentleman's, I can't be
    supposed to be much prepossessed myself--are known to people of
    importance, if that makes any difference.'

    'That, I would say,' observed the fair varnisher, 'Makes the greatest
    difference. The connection in question, being really people of
    importance and consideration--'

    'As to that,' said Edward Dorrit, Esquire, 'I'll give you the means of
    judging for yourself. You are acquainted, perhaps, with the famous name
    of Merdle?'

    'The great Merdle!' exclaimed Mrs General.

    '_The_ Merdle,' said Edward Dorrit, Esquire. 'They are known to him.
    Mrs Gowan--I mean the dowager, my polite friend's mother--is intimate
    with Mrs Merdle, and I know these two to be on their visiting list.'

    'If so, a more undeniable guarantee could not be given,' said Mrs
    General to Mr Dorrit, raising her gloves and bowing her head, as if she
    were doing homage to some visible graven image.

    'I beg to ask my son, from motives of--ah--curiosity,' Mr Dorrit
    observed, with a decided change in his manner, 'how he becomes possessed
    of this--hum--timely information?'

    'It's not a long story, sir,' returned Edward Dorrit, Esquire, 'and you
    shall have it out of hand. To begin with, Mrs Merdle is the lady you had
    the parley with at what's-his-name place.'

    'Martigny,' interposed Miss Fanny with an air of infinite languor.

    'Martigny,' assented her brother, with a slight nod and a slight wink;
    in acknowledgment of which, Miss Fanny looked surprised, and laughed and
    reddened.

    'How can that be, Edward?' said Mr Dorrit. 'You informed me that the
    name of the gentleman with whom you conferred was--ha--Sparkler. Indeed,
    you showed me his card. Hum. Sparkler.'

    'No doubt of it, father; but it doesn't follow that his mother's name
    must be the same. Mrs Merdle was married before, and he is her son. She
    is in Rome now; where probably we shall know more of her, as you decide
    to winter there. Sparkler is just come here. I passed last evening in
    company with Sparkler. Sparkler is a very good fellow on the
    whole, though rather a bore on one subject, in consequence of being
    tremendously smitten with a certain young lady.' Here Edward Dorrit,
    Esquire, eyed Miss Fanny through his glass across the table. 'We
    happened last night to compare notes about our travels, and I had the
    information I have given you from Sparkler himself.' Here he ceased;
    continuing to eye Miss Fanny through his glass, with a face much
    twisted, and not ornamentally so, in part by the action of keeping his
    glass in his eye, and in part by the great subtlety of his smile.

    'Under these circumstances,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I believe I express the
    sentiments of--ha--Mrs General, no less than my own, when I say
    that there is no objection, but--ha hum--quite the contrary--to your
    gratifying your desire, Amy. I trust I may--ha--hail--this desire,' said
    Mr Dorrit, in an encouraging and forgiving manner, 'as an auspicious
    omen. It is quite right to know these people. It is a very proper
    thing. Mr Merdle's is a name of--ha--world-wide repute. Mr Merdle's
    undertakings are immense. They bring him in such vast sums of money that
    they are regarded as--hum--national benefits. Mr Merdle is the man of
    this time. The name of Merdle is the name of the age. Pray do everything
    on my behalf that is civil to Mr and Mrs Gowan, for we will--ha--we will
    certainly notice them.'

    This magnificent accordance of Mr Dorrit's recognition settled the
    matter. It was not observed that Uncle had pushed away his plate, and
    forgotten his breakfast; but he was not much observed at any time,
    except by Little Dorrit. The servants were recalled, and the meal
    proceeded to its conclusion. Mrs General rose and left the table.
    Little Dorrit rose and left the table. When Edward and Fanny remained
    whispering together across it, and when Mr Dorrit remained eating figs
    and reading a French newspaper, Uncle suddenly fixed the attention of
    all three by rising out of his chair, striking his hand upon the table,
    and saying, 'Brother! I protest against it!'

    If he had made a proclamation in an unknown tongue, and given up the
    ghost immediately afterwards, he could not have astounded his audience
    more. The paper fell from Mr Dorrit's hand, and he sat petrified, with a
    fig half way to his mouth.

    'Brother!' said the old man, conveying a surprising energy into his
    trembling voice, 'I protest against it! I love you; you know I love you
    dearly. In these many years I have never been untrue to you in a single
    thought. Weak as I am, I would at any time have struck any man who spoke
    ill of you. But, brother, brother, brother, I protest against it!'

    It was extraordinary to see of what a burst of earnestness such a
    decrepit man was capable. His eyes became bright, his grey hair rose on
    his head, markings of purpose on his brow and face which had faded from
    them for five-and-twenty years, started out again, and there was an
    energy in his hand that made its action nervous once more.

    'My dear Frederick!' exclaimed Mr Dorrit faintly. 'What is wrong? What
    is the matter?'

    'How dare you,' said the old man, turning round on Fanny, 'how dare you
    do it? Have you no memory? Have you no heart?'

    'Uncle?' cried Fanny, affrighted and bursting into tears, 'why do you
    attack me in this cruel manner? What have I done?'

    'Done?' returned the old man, pointing to her sister's place, 'where's
    your affectionate invaluable friend? Where's your devoted guardian?
    Where's your more than mother? How dare you set up superiorities against
    all these characters combined in your sister? For shame, you false girl,
    for shame!'

    'I love Amy,' cried Miss Fanny, sobbing and weeping, 'as well as I love
    my life--better than I love my life. I don't deserve to be so treated. I
    am as grateful to Amy, and as fond of Amy, as it's possible for any
    human being to be. I wish I was dead. I never was so wickedly wronged.
    And only because I am anxious for the family credit.'

    'To the winds with the family credit!' cried the old man, with great
    scorn and indignation. 'Brother, I protest against pride. I protest
    against ingratitude. I protest against any one of us here who have known
    what we have known, and have seen what we have seen, setting up any
    pretension that puts Amy at a moment's disadvantage, or to the cost of
    a moment's pain. We may know that it's a base pretension by its having
    that effect. It ought to bring a judgment on us. Brother, I protest
    against it in the sight of God!'

    As his hand went up above his head and came down on the table, it might
    have been a blacksmith's. After a few moments' silence, it had relaxed
    into its usual weak condition. He went round to his brother with his
    ordinary shuffling step, put the hand on his shoulder, and said, in a
    softened voice, 'William, my dear, I felt obliged to say it; forgive me,
    for I felt obliged to say it!' and then went, in his bowed way, out of
    the palace hall, just as he might have gone out of the Marshalsea room.

    All this time Fanny had been sobbing and crying, and still continued to
    do so. Edward, beyond opening his mouth in amazement, had not opened his
    lips, and had done nothing but stare. Mr Dorrit also had been utterly
    discomfited, and quite unable to assert himself in any way. Fanny was
    now the first to speak.

    'I never, never, never was so used!' she sobbed. 'There never was
    anything so harsh and unjustifiable, so disgracefully violent and cruel!
    Dear, kind, quiet little Amy, too, what would she feel if she could know
    that she had been innocently the means of exposing me to such treatment!
    But I'll never tell her! No, good darling, I'll never tell her!'

    This helped Mr Dorrit to break his silence.

    'My dear,' said he, 'I--ha--approve of your resolution. It will be--ha
    hum--much better not to speak of this to Amy. It might--hum--it
    might distress her. Ha. No doubt it would distress her greatly. It
    is considerate and right to avoid doing so. We will--ha--keep this to
    ourselves.'

    'But the cruelty of Uncle!' cried Miss Fanny. 'O, I never can forgive
    the wanton cruelty of Uncle!'

    'My dear,' said Mr Dorrit, recovering his tone, though he remained
    unusually pale, 'I must request you not to say so. You must remember
    that your uncle is--ha--not what he formerly was. You must remember
    that your uncle's state requires--hum--great forbearance from us, great
    forbearance.'

    'I am sure,' cried Fanny, piteously, 'it is only charitable to suppose
    that there must be something wrong in him somewhere, or he never could
    have so attacked Me, of all the people in the world.'

    'Fanny,' returned Mr Dorrit in a deeply fraternal tone, 'you know, with
    his innumerable good points, what a--hum--wreck your uncle is; and, I
    entreat you by the fondness that I have for him, and by the fidelity
    that you know I have always shown him, to--ha--to draw your own
    conclusions, and to spare my brotherly feelings.'

    This ended the scene; Edward Dorrit, Esquire, saying nothing throughout,
    but looking, to the last, perplexed and doubtful. Miss Fanny awakened
    much affectionate uneasiness in her sister's mind that day by passing
    the greater part of it in violent fits of embracing her, and in
    alternately giving her brooches, and wishing herself dead.

 During a little break in his social life, Dorrit summons Mrs. General. The way he does it shows how pretentiously the Dorrits now live: one servant is told to find a second servant to pass a message to a third servant to ask Mrs. General to join Dorrit in the study. Turns out Dorrit kind of wants to do a parent-teacher meeting about Amy and how she doesn't seem to be adjusting to their fancy-pants new lifestyle. From the conversation, it's obvious that Mrs. General just thinks that this was a poor gentleman's family that suddenly became rich; she doesn't know about the whole prison thing. In any case, Mrs. General points out that Fanny and Amy are totally different. Fanny is probably too independent and self-willed , but Amy is just a lump of sad, depressive nothingness. With some long, elaborate, ridiculous talking around the subject, they finally decide that Dorrit will tell Amy to shape up himself, because maybe she'll listen to him. But this takes a crazy amount of roundabout conversation to get to. It's like they're trying to out-polite each other. There is some more elaborate servant-to-servant nonsense, and finally Amy comes in. Mr. Dorrit starts lecturing her about being more lively and less comatose. She starts to answer and calls him father. Mrs. General immediately interrupts with this awesome bit of teaching: "Papa is a preferable mode of address, gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips: especially prunes and prism" . Nice, right? Where were we? Oh, yes, being lectured by Dorrit. So Amy is bummed that dear old dad is harshing her mellow with all this "cheer up" stuff. Mrs. General leaves and Dorrit gets to the point: stop bringing up the prison every five seconds, OK? We all want to move on. Amy gets all self-sacrificing like she always does, and Dorrit throws himself a pity party. She calms him down, kisses him, and does that creepy maternal thing she always does. The narrator tells us that that's the last time Dorrit ever mentions his prison time. So things go in Venice. Frederick Dorrit likes to walk around the portrait galleries for some reason, and Amy starts coming with him. One day at breakfast, Fanny mentions that they ran into the Gowans. Amy asks if it's OK to try to make friends with Pet Gowan. Fanny doesn't know if the Gowans are suitable company, meaning they might be too low-class. But as soon as Tip points out that Gowan's mom is BFFs with Mrs. Merdle, who is the pinnacle of high society, everyone is psyched to have Amy make friends. Also, it turns out that Tip is now friends with Edmund Sparkler, Mrs. Merdle's son. Tip kind of wink-wink-nudge-nudges Fanny and says Edmund is reasonably fun, but also a little annoying because he has a huge crush on someone. Hint, hint. Mrs. General and Amy leave the room. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the usually quiet and meek Frederick Dorrit decides to chew everyone out for how obnoxious they are to Amy. He yells and calls them names, and it's a pretty shocking scene. Fanny starts to cry and feels like a victim. Dorrit, meanwhile, chalks it up to Frederick's being senile. Tip doesn't say anything but clearly feels guilty. They decide not to tell Amy that her uncle said any of this.

