Page 436 - bleak-house

‘Here I am,’ says Bart.
‘Been along with your friend again, Bart?’
Small nods.
‘Dining at his expense, Bart?’
Small nods again.
‘That’s right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and
take warning by his foolish example. That’s the use of such
a friend. The only use you can put him to,’ says the vener-
able sage.
His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as
dutifully as he might, honours it with all such acceptance
as may lie in a slight wink and a nod and takes a chair at
the tea-table. The four old faces then hover over teacups like
a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetu-
ally twitching her head and chattering at the trivets and Mr.
Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large
black draught.
‘Yes, yes,’ says the good old gentleman, reverting to his
lesson of wisdom. ‘That’s such advice as your father would
have given you, Bart. You never saw your father. More’s the
pity. He was my true son.’ Whether it is intended to be con-
veyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that
account, does not appear.
‘He was my true son,’ repeats the old gentleman, folding
his bread and butter on his knee, ‘a good accountant, and
died fifteen years ago.’
Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out
with ‘Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a
black box, fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hun-

436 Bleak House