‘No. No,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I am—hum—sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand, Young John, give me your hand.’
Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.
‘There!’ said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. ‘Sit down again, Young John.’
‘Thank you, sir—but I’d rather stand.’
Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:
‘And how is your father, Young John? How—ha—how are they all, Young John?’
‘Thank you, sir, They’re all pretty well, sir. They’re not any ways complaining.’
‘Hum. You are in your—ha—old business I see, John?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.
‘Partly, sir. I am in my’—John hesitated a little—‘father’s business likewise.’
‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Do you—ha hum—go upon the ha—’