‘Oh, papa,’ Fanny broke in with pointed significance, ‘if you make so much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help it under the circumstances.’ So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which, in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler into his presence.
‘Mrs General.’
Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, ‘How dare you, sir? What do you mean?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ pleaded Mr Tinkler, ‘I was wishful to know—’
‘You wished to know nothing, sir,’ cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed. ‘Don’t tell me you did. Ha. You didn’t. You are guilty of mockery, sir.’
‘I assure you, sir—’ Mr Tinkler began.
‘Don’t assure me!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not be assured by a domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me—hum—the whole establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?’
‘Only for my orders, sir.’
‘It’s false,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have your orders. Ha—hum. My compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.’
In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General’s skirts were very speedily heard outside, coming along—one might almost have said bouncing along—with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness.