Chapter: Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the
metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed
        to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens
        dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping
along with a scared air, as though bewildered and a little frightened
by the noise and bustle. This old man is always a little old man. If he
were ever a big old man, he has shrunk into a little old man; if he were
always a little old man, he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat
is a colour, and cut, that never was the mode anywhere, at any period.
Clearly, it was not made for him, or for any individual mortal. Some
wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such
quality, and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a
long unfinished line of many old men. It has always large dull metal
buttons, similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a
thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat, which has never adapted
itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and his coarse
neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat; they have
the same character of not being his--of not being anybody's. Yet this
old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being
dressed and elaborated for the public ways; as though he passed the
greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the
country mouse in the second year of a famine, come to see the town
mouse, and timidly threading his way to the town-mouse's lodging through
a city of cats, this old man passes in the streets.

Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a
slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist
and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small
measure will overset him; he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with
a half-pint pot. Some pitying acquaintance--chance acquaintance
very often--has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer, and the
consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he
shall pass again. For the little old man is going home to the Workhouse;
and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often (though methinks
        they might, considering the few years he has before him to go out in,
        under the sun); and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than
ever in a grove of two score and nineteen more old men, every one of
whom smells of all the others.

Mrs Plornish's father,--a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like
a worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music-binding
business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able
to make his way, or to see it or to pay it, or to do anything at all
with it but find it no thoroughfare,--had retired of his own accord to
the Workhouse which was appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his
district (without the twopence, which was bad political economy), on
the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the
Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law's difficulties coming to
that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but
        he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of
the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish
cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune
should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved
an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these
little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour.

But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and
no Old Men's Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter's
admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father's talents as she
could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had
as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she
could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little
old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about
Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus;
and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small
internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself
of these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by
a baby. On his 'days out,' those flecks of light in his flat vista of
pollard old men,' it was at once Mrs Plornish's delight and sorrow,
        when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full halfpenny-worth of
        porter, to say, 'Sing us a song, Father.' Then he would give them Chloe,
        and if he were in pretty good spirits, Phyllis also--Strephon he had
        hardly been up to since he went into retirement--and then would Mrs
        Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as
        Father, and wipe her eyes.

        If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the
        noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be
        presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish
        could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart
        Yard. 'Here's Father,' she would say, presenting him to a neighbour.
        'Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain't Father looking
        well? Father's a sweeter singer than ever; you'd never have forgotten
        it, if you'd aheard him just now.' As to Mr Plornish, he had married
        these articles of belief in marrying Mr Nandy's daughter, and only
        wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a
        fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical
        genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. 'For why,'
        argued Mr Plornish, 'why go a-binding music when you've got it in
        yourself? That's where it is, I consider.'

        Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain
        sumptuous way--an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring
        audience to witness that he really could not help being more free
        with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his
        simplicity and poverty--was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had
        been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his
        son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to
        himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the
        patronage of the Father of that national institution.

        Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man
        held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats
        and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying
        district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if
        there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old
        man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful.
        When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner. He
        had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his
        decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he
        could hold up his head at all, poor creature. 'In the Workhouse, sir,
        the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no
        speciality. Most deplorable!'

        It was Old Nandy's birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about
        its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old
        men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding
        Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and
        gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in
        to see how they all were.

        'Miss Dorrit,' said Mrs Plornish, 'here's Father! Ain't he looking nice?
        And such voice he's in!'

        Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him
        this long time.

        'No, they're rather hard on poor Father,' said Mrs Plornish with a
        lengthening face, 'and don't let him have half as much change and fresh
        air as would benefit him. But he'll soon be home for good, now. Won't
        you, Father?'

        'Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.'

        Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably
        made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched
        in the following terms:

        'John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there's a ounce of wittles or drink of
        any sort in this present roof, you're fully welcome to your share on
        it. While there's a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present
        roof, you're fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should
        be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share
        on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is what I mean
        and so I don't deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out is to
        entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?'

        To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had
        composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish's
        father pipingly replied:

        'I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is
        the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as
        it's not to take it out of your children's mouths, which take it is, and
        call it by what name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though
        may they come, and too soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!'

        Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner
        of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again
        by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his
        respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable.

        Her answer was, 'I am going straight home, and if he will come with me
        I shall be so glad to take care of him--so glad,' said Little Dorrit,
        always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, 'of his company.'

        'There, Father!' cried Mrs Plornish. 'Ain't you a gay young man to
        be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your
        neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you're a regular beau
        yourself, Father, if ever there was one.'

        With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a
        loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and
        her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old
        father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit's.

        They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron
        Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the
        water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he
        would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was
                to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens,
                and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter),
        and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five
        minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street,
        they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.

        'Why, good gracious me, Amy!' cried that young lady starting. 'You never
        mean it!'

        'Mean what, Fanny dear?'

        'Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,' returned the young
        lady with burning indignation, 'but I don't think even I could have
        believed this, of even you!'

        'Fanny!' cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.

        'Oh! Don't Fanny me, you mean little thing, don't! The idea of coming
        along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!'
        (firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun).

        'O Fanny!'

        'I tell you not to Fanny me, for I'll not submit to it! I never knew
        such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to
        disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!'

        'Does it disgrace anybody,' said Little Dorrit, very gently, 'to take
        care of this poor old man?'

        'Yes, miss,' returned her sister, 'and you ought to know it does.
        And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The
        principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their
        misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep
        low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I
        have. You'll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way,
        unmolested.'

        With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old
        disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for
                Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and
        who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the
        way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said, 'I hope nothing's
        wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope there's nothing the matter
        in the honoured family?'

        'No, no,' returned Little Dorrit. 'No, thank you. Give me your arm
        again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.'

        So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the
        Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened
        that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at
        the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in
        arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the
        utmost agitation and despondency of mind; and--altogether regardless of
        Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as
        he always did in that gracious presence--turned about, and hurried in at
        his own doorway and up the staircase.

        Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under
        her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little
        Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny
        following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came
        into the room almost together; and the Father sat down in his chair,
        buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan.

        'Of course,' said Fanny. 'Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope
        you believe me, Miss?'

        'What is it, father?' cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. 'Have I
        made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!'

        'You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you'--Fanny paused for a sufficiently
        strong expression--'you Common-minded little Amy! You complete
        prison-child!'

        He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed
        out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger
        daughter, 'Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention. But you
        have cut me to the soul.'

        'Innocent in intention!' the implacable Fanny struck in. 'Stuff in
        intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!'

        'Father!' cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. 'I am very sorry.
        Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!'

        'How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!' cried Fanny. 'You
        know how it is. I have told you already, so don't fly in the face of
        Providence by attempting to deny it!'

        'Hush! Amy,' said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several
        times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand
        that dropped across his knee, 'I have done what I could to keep you
        select here; I have done what I could to retain you a position here. I
        may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it; you may not. I give no
        opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have
        happily been spared--until this day.'

        Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his
        pocket-handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground
        beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him
        remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his
        pocket-handkerchief once more.

        'Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all
        my troubles there has been that--Spirit in myself, and that--that
        submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has
        spared me--ha--humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly
        felt it.'

        'Of course! How could it be otherwise?' exclaimed the irrepressible
        Fanny. 'Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!' (air-gun again).

        'But, dear father,' cried Little Dorrit, 'I don't justify myself for
        having wounded your dear heart--no! Heaven knows I don't!' She clasped
        her hands in quite an agony of distress. 'I do nothing but beg and pray
        you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you
        were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were
        always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I
        would not, indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done
        in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!'
        said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, 'for anything the world
        could give me, or anything it could take away.'

        Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry
        herself, and to say--as this young lady always said when she was half in
        passion and half out of it, half spiteful with herself and half spiteful
        with everybody else--that she wished she were dead.

        The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger daughter
        to his breast, and patted her head.

        'There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my child. I will forget it
        as soon as I can. I,' with hysterical cheerfulness, 'I--shall soon be
        able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am always glad
        to see my old pensioner--as such, as such--and that I do--ha--extend as
        much protection and kindness to the--hum--the bruised reed--I trust I
        may so call him without impropriety--as in my circumstances, I can. It
        is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same
        time, I preserve in doing this, if I may--ha--if I may use the
        expression--Spirit. Becoming Spirit. And there are some things which
        are,' he stopped to sob, 'irreconcilable with that, and wound
        that--wound it deeply. It is not that I have seen my good Amy
        attentive, and--ha--condescending to my old pensioner--it is not _that_
        that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being
        explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter,
        coming into this College out of the public streets--smiling!
        smiling!--arm in arm with--O my God, a livery!'

        This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate
        gentleman gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his
        clenched pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings
        might have found some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the
        door, which had been already twice repeated, and to which Fanny (still
                wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so far as to add, buried)
        cried 'Come in!'

        'Ah, Young John!' said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice. 'What
        is it, Young John?'

        'A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a
        message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would
        bring it to your room.' The speaker's attention was much distracted by
        the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father's feet, with her
        head turned away.

        'Indeed, John? Thank you.'

        'The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir--it's the answer--and the message
        was, sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he
        would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see
        you, and likewise,' attention more distracted than before, 'Miss Amy.'

        'Oh!' As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note in
                it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. 'Thank
        you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No
        one waiting?'

        'No, sir, no one waiting.'

        'Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?'

        'Thank you, sir, she's not quite as well as we could wish--in fact, we
        none of us are, except father--but she's pretty well, sir.'

        'Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you
        please, Young John.'

        'Thank you, sir, I will.' And Mr Chivery junior went his way, having
        spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself,
        to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having
        at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And
        feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to
        the abode of his inconsolable parents, And terminated his existence by
        his own rash act.

        'There, there, Amy!' said the Father, when Young John had closed the
        door, 'let us say no more about it.' The last few minutes had improved
        his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. 'Where is my old
        pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer,
        or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me.
        Will you fetch him, my child, or shall I?'

        'If you wouldn't mind, father,' said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her
        sobbing to a close.

        'Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red.
        There! Cheer up, Amy. Don't be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again,
        my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look
        comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.'

        'I would rather stay in my own room, Father,' returned Little Dorrit,
        finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. 'I would
        far rather not see Mr Clennam.'

        'Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that's folly. Mr Clennam is a very gentlemanly
        man--very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say
        extremely gentlemanly. I couldn't think of your not being here to
        receive Mr Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and
        freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen yourself up, like a good girl.'

        Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing
        for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of
        reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed
        in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she
        generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of
        wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he should come bothering there
        like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and making mischief between
        two sisters.

        The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black
        velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went
        down into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in
        hand just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. 'Come, Nandy!'
        said he, with great suavity. 'Come up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way;
        why don't you come up-stairs?' He went the length, on this occasion,
        of giving him his hand and saying, 'How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty
        well?' To which that vocalist returned, 'I thank you, honoured sir, I am
        all the better for seeing your honour.' As they went along the yard, the
        Father of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date.
        'An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.' And then said, 'Be
        covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,' with great consideration.

        His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea
        ready, and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh butter,
        eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a
        bank-note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful
        of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress,
        and his daughter Amy had come back with her work, when Clennam presented
        himself; whom he most graciously received, and besought to join their
        meal.

        'Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the happiness
        of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr Clennam.' Fanny
        acknowledged him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such
        cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not
        understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of
        the conspirators. 'This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner
        of mine, Old Nandy, a very faithful old man.' (He always spoke of him as
                an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than
                himself.) 'Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think my daughter
        Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?'

        'O yes!' said Arthur Clennam.

        'Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish's father.'

        'Indeed? I am glad to see him.'

        'You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr
        Clennam.'

        'I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,' said Arthur,
        secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure.

        'It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are
        always glad to see him,' observed the Father of the Marshalsea. Then he
        added behind his hand, ('Union, poor old fellow. Out for the day.')

        By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had spread
        the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison
        very close, the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. 'If Maggy
        will spread that newspaper on the window-sill, my dear,' remarked the
        Father complacently and in a half whisper to Little Dorrit, 'my old
        pensioner can have his tea there, while we are having ours.'

        So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in
        width, standard measure, Mrs Plornish's father was handsomely regaled.
        Clennam had never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that
        other Father, he of the Marshalsea; and was lost in the contemplation of
        its many wonders.

        The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he
        remarked on the pensioner's infirmities and failings, as if he were
        a gracious Keeper making a running commentary on the decline of the
        harmless animal he exhibited.

        'Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His last
                teeth,' he explained to the company, 'are going, poor old boy.')

        At another time, he said, 'No shrimps, Nandy?' and on his not instantly
        replying, observed, ('His hearing is becoming very defective. He'll be
                deaf directly.')

        At another time he asked him, 'Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard
        within the walls of that place of yours?'

        'No, sir; no. I haven't any great liking for that.'

        'No, to be sure,' he assented. 'Very natural.' Then he privately
        informed the circle ('Legs going.')

        Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him
        anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was?

        'John Edward,' said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork
        to consider. 'How old, sir? Let me think now.'

        The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead ('Memory weak.')

        'John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn't say at this minute,
        sir, whether it's two and two months, or whether it's two and five
        months. It's one or the other.'

        'Don't distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,' he returned,
        with infinite forbearance. ('Faculties evidently decaying--old man rusts
                in the life he leads!')

        The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the
        pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got out of
        his chair after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his intimating
        that he feared, honoured sir, his time was running out, he made himself
        look as erect and strong as possible.

        'We don't call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,' he said, putting one
        in his hand. 'We call it tobacco.'

        'Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to
        Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr Clennam.'

        'And mind you don't forget us, you know, Nandy,' said the Father. 'You
        must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come
        out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be
        very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandy; they are rather uneven
        and worn.' With that he stood on the landing, watching the old man down:
        and when he came into the room again, said, with a solemn satisfaction
        on him, 'A melancholy sight that, Mr Clennam, though one has the
        consolation of knowing that he doesn't feel it himself. The poor old
        fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone--pulverised--crushed
        out of him, sir, completely!'

        As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive
        to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator,
        while Maggy and her Little Mother washed the tea-service and cleared it
        away. He noticed that his companion stood at the window with the air of
        an affable and accessible Sovereign, and that, when any of his people in
        the yard below looked up, his recognition of their salutes just stopped
        short of a blessing.

        When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the
        bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her
        departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At this
        time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr Tip came in. He kissed
        Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his
        father, gloomed on the visitor without further recognition, and sat
        down.

        'Tip, dear,' said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, 'don't you
        see--'

        'Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have
        here--I say, if you refer to that,' answered Tip, jerking his head with
        emphasis towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, 'I see!'

        'Is that all you say?'

        'That's all I say. And I suppose,' added the lofty young man, after a
        moment's pause, 'that visitor will understand me, when I say that's all
        I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn't
        used me like a gentleman.'

        'I do not understand that,' observed the obnoxious personage referred to
        with tranquillity.

        'No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know
        that when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and an urgent
        appeal, and a delicate appeal, to an individual, for a small temporary
        accommodation, easily within his power--easily within his power,
        mind!--and when that individual writes back word to me that he begs to
        be excused, I consider that he doesn't treat me like a gentleman.'

        The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no
        sooner heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:--

        'How dare you--' But his son stopped him.

        'Now, don't ask me how I dare, father, because that's bosh. As to the
        fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual
        present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper spirit.'

        'I should think so!' cried Fanny.

        'A proper spirit?' said the Father. 'Yes, a proper spirit; a becoming
        spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me--_me_--spirit!'

        'Now, don't let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the
        subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present has
        not treated me like a gentleman. And there's an end of it.'

        'But there is not an end of it, sir,' returned the Father. 'But there
        shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You have made up
        your mind?'

        'Yes, _I_ have. What's the good of keeping on like that?'

        'Because,' returned the Father, in a great heat, 'you had no right to
        make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is--ha--immoral, to what
        is--hum--parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don't ask me to desist;
        there is a--hum--a general principle involved here, which rises even
        above considerations of--ha--hospitality. I object to the assertion made
        by my son. I--ha--I personally repel it.'

        'Why, what is it to you, father?' returned the son, over his shoulder.

        'What is it to me, sir? I have a--hum--a spirit, sir, that will not
        endure it. I,' he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and dabbed his
        face. 'I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I
        myself may at a certain time--ha--or times, have made a--hum--an appeal,
        and a properly-worded appeal, and a delicate appeal, and an urgent
        appeal to some individual for a small temporary accommodation. Let me
        suppose that that accommodation could have been easily extended, and was
        not extended, and that that individual informed me that he begged to
        be excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore received
        treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I--ha--I submitted to it?'

        His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any
        account be calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn't endure this.

        Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on his
        own hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by
        his own blood?

        'You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this
        injury of your own accord!' said the young gentleman morosely. 'What I
        have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you. What I said had
        nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on other people's hats?'

        'I reply it has everything to do with me,' returned the Father. 'I point
        out to you, sir, with indignation, that--hum--the--ha--delicacy and
        peculiarity of your father's position should strike you dumb, sir, if
        nothing else should, in laying down such--ha--such unnatural principles.
        Besides; if you are not filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you
        are at least--hum--not a Christian? Are you--ha--an Atheist? And is it
        Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatise and denounce an individual
        for begging to be excused this time, when the same individual
        may--ha--respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the
        part of a Christian not to--hum--not to try him again?' He had worked
        himself into quite a religious glow and fervour.

        'I see precious well,' said Mr Tip, rising, 'that I shall get no
        sensible or fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I can do
        is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don't be vexed. I am very sorry it happens
        here, and you here, upon my soul I am; but I can't altogether part with
        my spirit, even for your sake, old girl.'

        With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss
        Fanny; who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of
        Clennam with any less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing
        that she had always known him for one of the large body of conspirators.

        When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first inclined
        to sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that a
        gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to
        the Snuggery. It was the gentleman Clennam had seen on the night of his
        own accidental detention there, who had that impalpable grievance about
        the misappropriated Fund on which the Marshal was supposed to batten.
        He presented himself as deputation to escort the Father to the Chair, it
        being an occasion on which he had promised to preside over the assembled
        Collegians in the enjoyment of a little Harmony.

        'Such, you see, Mr Clennam,' said the Father, 'are the incongruities
        of my position here. But a public duty! No man, I am sure, would more
        readily recognise a public duty than yourself.'

        Clennam besought him not to delay a moment.

        'Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can
        leave the honours of our poor apology for an establishment with
        confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards
        erasing from Mr Clennam's mind the--ha--untoward and unpleasant
        circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.'

        Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and
        therefore required no erasure.

        'My dear sir,' said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and a
        grasp of Clennam's hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his
        note and enclosure that afternoon, 'Heaven ever bless you!'

        So, at last, Clennam's purpose in remaining was attained, and he could
        speak to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as nobody, and she
        was by.

 So there's a sad, decrepit old dude wandering around the streets. He's clearly from the workhouse. Brain snack: Workhouses were places where poor people who couldn't support themselves were sent to basically be worked to death. Why? Well, let's do a quick rundown of England in the 19th century. No welfare? Check. No Medicare/Medicaid? Check. No social support for people at the end of life? Check. No old folks' homes? Check. So what to do with all the poor old people? Call them immoral, lazy, and deserving of their fate - and lock them up in workhouses. Yikes, right? So back to our story. Who is this sad old guy? He's Mrs. Plornish's dad, Old Mr. Nandy. He doesn't want to be a burden on his kids and grandkids, so he voluntarily goes to the workhouse, which is basically like a prison. They only let him out for special holidays - today, for example, it's his birthday. Mrs. Plornish adores her dad. He still sings a little bit and she is totally captivated listening to him. It's actually really sweet and super-sad. Mr. Nandy runs into Little Dorrit at the Plornishes, and she offers to escort him to the Marshalsea to see Dorrit. Apparently they know each other. Actually scratch that - apparently Dorrit likes to pretend that Nandy is some kind of old servant or vassal who comes out of loyalty to see his old master. Oh yeah, that's a whole world of nonsense right there, but Dorrit is nothing if not delusional. On the way to the Marshalsea, Little Dorrit and Nandy run into Fanny, who totally loses it at the sight of them. How dare Little Dorrit walk in the company of someone so poor! Fanny claims that this is somehow degrading to the Dorrit family. At the prison, Dorrit yells at Little Dorrit for the same thing. He and Fanny gang up on her and accuse her of wanting to drag the family's name through the mud. OK, hang on a sec - are you getting how totally nuts this is? The Dorrits are in prison! They have been for years! For being so deep in debt and so poor that the Dorrit girls have to work for a living - scandalous back then! But just in the nick of time, Arthur saves the day. A letter comes from him, with some money for Dorrit . Dorrit cheers up, forgives Amy, and gets Nandy to come upstairs for a visit. Arthur also shows up. Amy wants to leave and not have to see him, but Dorrit makes her stay. Dorrit's main pleasure in life is pointing out how decrepit old Nandy is, which is also sort of ludicrous, because Nandy is actually a few years younger than Dorrit himself. But still, to each his own. After the meal is over, Dorrit walks Nandy out, then stands at the window of his room looking down on the crowd like a king or a pope. Tip comes in and snubs Arthur rudely. When Little Dorrit asks why, Tip says that by not sending him money, Arthur has insulted him. Talk about a sense of entitlement! Dorrit gets mad at this, although it's not clear why. Shmoop thinks it might be because: 1) he's angry that Tip is also writing begging letters to Arthur, or 2) he's angry that Tip is insulting the one rich-ish person they know, or 3) Dorrit at least got some money out of Arthur and he's afraid Tip's rudeness will put an end to that. Tip leaves. Dorrit asks Little Dorrit to hang out with Arthur and smooth things over.

