Mr. Grewgious was discovered by his ward, much discomfited by being in Miss Twinkleton’s company in Miss Twinkleton’s own sacred room. Dim forebodings of being examined in something, and not coming well out of it, seemed to oppress the poor gentleman when found in these circumstances.
“My dear, how do you do? I am glad to see you. My dear, how much improved you are. Permit me to hand you a chair, my dear.”
Miss Twinkleton rose at her little writing-table, saying, with general sweetness, as to the polite Universe: “Will you permit me to retire?”
“By no means, madam, on my account. I beg that you will not move.”
“I must entreat permission to move,” returned Miss Twinkleton, repeating the word with a charming grace; “but I will not withdraw, since you are so obliging. If I wheel my desk to this corner window, shall I be in the way?”
“Madam! In the way!”
“You are very kind.—Rosa, my dear, you will be under no restraint, I am sure.”
Here Mr. Grewgious, left by the fire with Rosa, said again: “My dear, how do you do? I am glad to see you, my dear.” And having waited for her to sit down, sat down himself.
“My visits,” said Mr. Grewgious, “are, like those of the angels—not that I compare myself to an angel.”
“No, sir,” said Rosa.