Under a general pretence of helping him to this refreshment, Flora got him out on the staircase; Mr F.‘s Aunt even then constantly reiterating, with inexpressible bitterness, that he was ‘a chap,’ and had a ‘proud stomach,’ and over and over again insisting on that equine provision being made for him which she had already so strongly prescribed.
‘Such an inconvenient staircase and so many corner-stairs Arthur,’ whispered Flora, ‘would you object to putting your arm round me under my pelerine?’
With a sense of going down-stairs in a highly-ridiculous manner, Clennam descended in the required attitude, and only released his fair burden at the dining-room door; indeed, even there she was rather difficult to be got rid of, remaining in his embrace to murmur, ‘Arthur, for mercy’s sake, don’t breathe it to papa!’
She accompanied Arthur into the room, where the Patriarch sat alone, with his list shoes on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had never left off. The youthful Patriarch, aged ten, looked out of his picture-frame above him with no calmer air than he. Both smooth heads were alike beaming, blundering, and bumpy.
‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, sir, I hope you are well. Please to sit down, please to sit down.’
‘I had hoped, sir,’ said Clennam, doing so, and looking round with a face of blank disappointment, ‘not to find you alone.’
‘Ah, indeed?’ said the Patriarch, sweetly. ‘Ah, indeed?’
‘I told you so you know papa,’ cried Flora.
‘Ah, to be sure!’ returned the Patriarch. ‘Yes, just so. Ah, to be sure!’
‘Pray, sir,’ demanded Clennam, anxiously, ‘is Miss Wade gone?’