Then he said to Miss Pinch—with more condescension and kindness than ever, for it was desirable the footman should expressly understand that they were not friends of hers, but patrons:
“Good morning. Goodbye. God bless you! You may depend upon my continued protection of your brother Thomas. Keep your mind quite at ease, Miss Pinch!”
“Thank you,” said Tom’s sister heartily; “a thousand times.”
“Not at all,” he retorted, patting her gently on the head. “Don’t mention it. You will make me angry if you do. My sweet child”—to the pupil—“farewell! That fairy creature,” said Mr. Pecksniff, looking in his pensive mood hard at the footman, as if he meant him, “has shed a vision on my path, refulgent in its nature, and not easily to be obliterated. My dears, are you ready?”
They were not quite ready yet, for they were still caressing the pupil. But they tore themselves away at length; and sweeping past Miss Pinch with each a haughty inclination of the head and a curtsey strangled in its birth, flounced into the passage.
The young man had rather a long job in showing them out; for Mr. Pecksniff’s delight in the tastefulness of the house was such that he could not help often stopping (particularly when they were near the parlour door) and giving it expression, in a loud voice and very learned terms. Indeed, he delivered, between the study and the hall, a familiar exposition of the whole science of architecture as applied to dwelling-houses, and was yet in the freshness of his eloquence when they reached the garden.
“If you look,” said Mr. Pecksniff, backing from the steps, with his head on one side and his eyes half-shut that he might the better take in the proportions of the exterior: “If you look, my dears, at the cornice which supports the roof, and observe the airiness of its construction, especially where it sweeps the southern angle of the building, you will feel with me—How do you do, sir? I hope you’re well?”
Interrupting himself with these words, he very politely bowed to a middle-aged gentleman at an upper window, to whom he spoke—not because the gentleman could hear him (for he certainly could not), but as an appropriate accompaniment to his salutation.
“I have no doubt, my dears,” said Mr. Pecksniff, feigning to point out other beauties with his hand, “that this is the proprietor. I should be glad to know him. It might lead to something. Is he looking this way, Charity?”
“He is opening the window, pa!”
“Ha, ha!” cried Mr. Pecksniff softly. “All right! He has found I’m professional. He heard me inside just now, I have no doubt. Don’t look! With regard to the fluted pillars in the portico, my dears—”
“Hallo!” cried the gentleman.
“Sir, your servant!” said Mr. Pecksniff, taking off his hat. “I am proud to make your acquaintance.”
“Come off the grass, will you!” roared the gentleman.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Pecksniff, doubtful of his having heard aright. “Did you—?”
“Come off the grass!” repeated the gentleman, warmly.
“We are unwilling to intrude, sir,” Mr. Pecksniff smilingly began.
“But you are intruding,” returned the other, “unwarrantably intruding. Trespassing. You see a gravel walk, don’t you? What do you think it’s meant for? Open the gate there! Show that party out!”
With that he clapped down the window again, and disappeared.
Mr. Pecksniff put on his hat, and walked with great deliberation and in profound silence to the fly, gazing at the clouds as he went, with great interest. After helping his daughters and Mrs. Todgers into that conveyance, he stood looking at it for some moments, as if he were not quite certain whether it was a carriage or a temple; but having settled this point in his mind, he got into his place, spread his hands out on his knees, and smiled upon the three beholders.
But his daughters, less tranquil-minded, burst into a torrent of indignation. This came, they said, of cherishing such creatures as the Pinches. This came of lowering themselves to their level. This came of putting themselves in the humiliating position of seeming to know such bold, audacious, cunning, dreadful girls as that. They had expected this. They had predicted it to Mrs. Todgers, as she (Todgers) could depone, that very morning. To this, they added, that the owner of the house, supposing them to be Miss Pinch’s friends, had acted, in their opinion, quite correctly, and had done no more than, under such circumstances, might reasonably have been expected. To that they added (with a trifling inconsistency), that he was a brute and a bear; and then they merged into a flood of tears, which swept away all wandering epithets before it.
Perhaps Miss Pinch was scarcely so much to blame in the matter as the Seraph, who, immediately on the withdrawal of the visitors, had hastened to report them at headquarters, with a full account of their having presumptuously charged her with the delivery of a message afterwards consigned to the footman; which outrage, taken in conjunction with Mr. Pecksniff’s unobtrusive remarks on the establishment, might possibly have had some share in their dismissal. Poor Miss Pinch, however, had to bear the brunt of it with both parties; being so severely taken to task by the Seraph’s mother for having such vulgar acquaintances, that she was fain to retire to her own room in tears, which her natural cheerfulness and submission, and the delight of having seen Mr. Pecksniff, and having received a letter from her brother, were at first insufficient to repress.
As to Mr. Pecksniff, he told them in the fly, that a good action was its own
