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of feeling in the hotel was against him. Upon it, Gowan resolved to

encourage him.

Why this perversity, if it were not in a generous fit?--which it was

not. Why should Gowan, very much the superior of Blandois of Paris, and

very well able to pull that prepossessing gentleman to pieces and find

out the stuff he was made of, take up with such a man? In the first

place, he opposed the first separate wish he observed in his wife,

because her father had paid his debts and it was desirable to take an

early opportunity of asserting his independence. In the second place,

he opposed the prevalent feeling, because with many capacities of

being otherwise, he was an ill-conditioned man. He found a pleasure in

declaring that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois ought

to rise to the greatest distinction in any polished country. He found a

pleasure in setting up Blandois as the type of elegance, and making

him a satire upon others who piqued themselves on personal graces.

He seriously protested that the bow of Blandois was perfect, that the

address of Blandois was irresistible, and that the picturesque ease

of Blandois would be cheaply purchased (if it were not a gift, and

unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That exaggeration in the

manner of the man which has been noticed as appertaining to him and to

every such man, whatever his original breeding, as certainly as the sun

belongs to this system, was acceptable to Gowan as a caricature, which

he found it a humorous resource to have at hand for the ridiculing of

numbers of people who necessarily did more or less of what Blandois

overdid. Thus he had taken up with him; and thus, negligently

strengthening these inclinations with habit, and idly deriving some

amusement from his talk, he had glided into a way of having him for

a companion. This, though he supposed him to live by his wits at

play-tables and the like; though he suspected him to be a coward, while

he himself was daring and courageous; though he thoroughly knew him to

be disliked by Minnie; and though he cared so little for him, after all,

that if he had given her any tangible personal cause to regard him with

aversion, he would have had no compunction whatever in flinging him out

of the highest window in Venice into the deepest water of the city.

Little Dorrit would have been glad to make her visit to Mrs Gowan,

alone; but as Fanny, who had not yet recovered from her Uncle's protest,

though it was four-and-twenty hours of age, pressingly offered her

company, the two sisters stepped together into one of the gondolas under

Mr Dorrit's window, and, with the courier in attendance, were taken in

high state to Mrs Gowan's lodging. In truth, their state was rather too

high for the lodging, which was, as Fanny complained, 'fearfully out of

the way,' and which took them through a complexity of narrow streets of

water, which the same lady disparaged as 'mere ditches.'

The house, on a little desert island, looked as if it had broken

away from somewhere else, and had floated by chance into its present

anchorage in company with a vine almost as much in want of training as

the poor wretches who were lying under its leaves. The features of the

surrounding picture were, a church with hoarding and scaffolding about

it, which had been under suppositious repair so long that the means of

repair looked a hundred years old, and had themselves fallen into decay;

a quantity of washed linen, spread to dry in the sun; a number of houses

at odds with one another and grotesquely out of the perpendicular, like

rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into fantastic shapes and full of mites;

and a feverish bewilderment of windows, with their lattice-blinds all

hanging askew, and something draggled and dirty dangling out of most of

them.

On the first-floor of the house was a Bank--a surprising experience for

any gentleman of commercial pursuits bringing laws for all mankind from

a British city--where two spare clerks, like dried dragoons, in green

velvet caps adorned with golden tassels, stood, bearded, behind a small

counter in a small room, containing no other visible objects than an

empty iron-safe with the door open, a jug of water, and a papering of

garland of roses; but who, on lawful requisition, by merely dipping

their hands out of sight, could produce exhaustless mounds of five-franc

pieces. Below the Bank was a suite of three or four rooms with barred

windows, which had the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the

Bank was Mrs Gowan's residence.

Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary maps were

bursting out of them to impart geographical knowledge; notwithstanding

that its weird furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the

prevailing Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb tide on a weedy

shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised.

The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin--a

temporary servant--who ushered them into the room where Mrs Gowan sat,

with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see

the mistress.

Mrs Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a

covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively

courteous to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a

veteran.

'Papa was extremely sorry,' proceeded Fanny, 'to be engaged to-day (he

is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!);

and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr Gowan. That I may

be sure to acquit myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at

least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on

the table at once.'

Which she did with veteran ease.

'We have been,' said Fanny, 'charmed to understand that you know the

Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.'

'They are friends,' said Mrs Gowan, 'of Mr Gowan's family. I have not

yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs Merdle, but I

suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.'

'Indeed?' returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably quenching her

own superiority. 'I think you'll like her.'

'You know her very well?'

'Why, you see,' said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders,

'in London one knows every one. We met her on our way here, and, to say

the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the

rooms that our people had ordered for us.

However, of course, that soon blew over, and we were all good friends

again.'

Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of

conversing with Mrs Gowan, there was a silent understanding between

them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs Gowan with keen and unabated

interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was

near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit.

She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other

case--but one.

'You have been quite well,' she now said, 'since that night?'

'Quite, my dear. And you?' 'Oh! I am always well,' said Little Dorrit,

timidly. 'I--yes, thank you.'

There was no reason for her faltering and breaking off, other than that

Mrs Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had

met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive in the large, soft eyes, had

checked Little Dorrit in an instant.

'You don't know that you are a favourite of my husband's, and that I am

almost bound to be jealous of you?' said Mrs Gowan.

Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.

'He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are

quieter and quicker of resource than any one he ever saw.'

'He speaks far too well of me,' said Little Dorrit.

'I doubt that; but I don't at all doubt that I must tell him you

are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you--and Miss

Dorrit--go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder and

discomfort of a painter's studio?'

The inquiries were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that

she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted. Mrs Gowan went to

a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. 'Do Henry the favour to come

in,' said she, 'I knew he would be pleased!'

The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was

Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive slouched hat, standing

on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint

Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She

recoiled from this figure, as it smiled at her.

'Don't be alarmed,' said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door.

'It's only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model to-day. I am making

a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor

painters have none to spare.'

Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted the ladies

without coming out of his corner.

'A thousand pardons!' said he. 'But the Professore here is so inexorable

with me, that I am afraid to stir.'

'Don't stir, then,' said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the

easel. 'Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they

may know what it's meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting

for his prey, a distinguished noble waiting to save his country, the

common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger

waiting to do somebody a good turn--whatever you think he looks most

like!' 'Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage to

elegance and beauty,' remarked Blandois.

'Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,' returned Gowan, touching the painted

face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, 'a

murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it

outside the cloak. Keep it still.'

Blandois' hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally

shake it.

'He was formerly in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a

victim, you observe,' said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand

with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, 'and these are the tokens of

it. Outside the cloak, man!--Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking

of?'

Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more;

now he raised it to twist his moustache, which had a damp appearance;

and now he stood in the required position, with a little new swagger.

His face was so directed in reference to the spot where Little Dorrit

stood by the easel, that throughout he looked at her. Once attracted by

his peculiar eyes, she could not remove her own, and they had looked

at each other all the time. She trembled now; Gowan, feeling it, and

supposing her to be alarmed by the large dog beside him, whose head she

caressed in her hand, and who had just uttered a low growl, glanced at

her to say, 'He won't hurt you, Miss Dorrit.'

'I am not afraid of him,' she returned in the same breath; 'but will you

look at him?'

In a moment Gowan had thrown down his brush, and seized the dog with

both hands by the collar.

'Blandois! How can you be such a fool as to provoke him! By Heaven, and

the other place too, he'll tear you to bits! Lie down!

Lion! Do you hear my voice, you rebel!

'The great dog, regardless of being half-choked by his collar, was

obdurately pulling with his dead weight against his master, resolved to

get across the room. He had been crouching for a spring at the moment

when his master caught him.

'Lion! Lion!' He was up on his hind legs, and it was a wrestle between

master and dog. 'Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois!

What devil have you conjured into the dog?'

'I have done nothing to him.'

'Get out of his sight or I can't hold the wild beast! Get out of the

room! By my soul, he'll kill you!'

The dog, with a ferocious bark, made one other struggle as Blandois

vanished; then, in the moment of the dog's submission, the master,

little less angry than the dog, felled him with a blow on the head, and

standing over him, struck him many times severely with the heel of his

boot, so that his mouth was presently bloody.

'Now get you into that corner and lie down,' said Gowan, 'or I'll take

you out and shoot you.'

Lion did as he was ordered, and lay down licking his mouth and chest.

Lion's master stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, recovering

his usual coolness of manner, turned to speak to his frightened wife

and her visitors. Probably the whole occurrence had not occupied two

minutes.

'Come, come, Minnie! You know he is always good-humoured and tractable.

Blandois must have irritated him,--made faces at him. The dog has his

likings and dislikings, and Blandois is no great favourite of his; but

I am sure you will give him a character, Minnie, for never having been

like this before.'

Minnie was too much disturbed to say anything connected in reply; Little

Dorrit was already occupied in soothing her; Fanny, who had cried out

twice or thrice, held Gowan's arm for protection; Lion, deeply ashamed

of having caused them this alarm, came trailing himself along the ground

to the feet of his mistress.

'You furious brute,' said Gowan, striking him with his foot again. 'You

shall do penance for this.' And he struck him again, and yet again.

'O, pray don't punish him any more,' cried Little Dorrit. 'Don't hurt

him. See how gentle he is!' At her entreaty, Gowan spared him; and he

deserved her intercession, for truly he was as submissive, and as sorry,

and as wretched as a dog could be.

It was not easy to recover this shock and make the visit unrestrained,