‘No, no,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully, ‘of virtue—have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it is really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is difficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp ‘that she could! How little did she know his heart!’
Little, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would have preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent—nay, the hug of a bear—to the endearments of Mr Pecksniff.
‘Come, come,’ said that good gentleman, ‘a word or two will set this matter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am not angry, my love.’
‘You angry!’
‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘I am not. I say so. Neither are you.’
There was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story though.
‘I am sure you are not,’ said Mr Pecksniff: ‘and I will tell you why. There are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger to one might have a serious effect—who knows!—upon the other. You wouldn’t wish to hurt him, would you?’
She trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that he turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in spite of his better self.
‘A passive quarrel, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘may be changed into an active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited young man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it. Ah, how easy! Have I influence with our venerable friend, do you think? Well, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’
He raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was charming.