‘I have been—ha—disappointed, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to understand from Mr Sparkler that there is no great—hum—probability of Mr Merdle’s coming abroad.’
‘Why, indeed,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘he is so much engaged and in such request, that I fear not. He has not been able to get abroad for years. You, Miss Dorrit, I believe have been almost continually abroad for a long time.’
‘Oh dear yes,’ drawled Fanny, with the greatest hardihood. ‘An immense number of years.’
‘So I should have inferred,’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘Exactly,’ said Fanny.
‘I trust, however,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ‘that if I have not the—hum—great advantage of becoming known to Mr Merdle on this side of the Alps or Mediterranean, I shall have that honour on returning to England. It is an honour I particularly desire and shall particularly esteem.’
‘Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle, who had been looking admiringly at Fanny through her eye-glass, ‘will esteem it, I am sure, no less.’
Little Dorrit, still habitually thoughtful and solitary though no longer alone, at first supposed this to be mere Prunes and Prism. But as her father when they had been to a brilliant reception at Mrs Merdle’s, harped at their own family breakfast-table on his wish to know Mr Merdle, with the contingent view of benefiting by the advice of that wonderful man in the disposal of his fortune, she began to think it had a real meaning, and to entertain a curiosity on her own part to see the shining light of the time.