"I have no intention of removing from it," was Martin's answer.
"Then why," said Mr. Pecksniff, taking the old man's arm in his, and walking slowly on: "Why, my good Sir, can't you come and stay with me? I am sure I could surround you with more comforts—lowly as is my Cot, than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon me, Mr. Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon, however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs. Lupin is one of the worthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham."
Martin mused a moment: and then said, as he shook him by the hand,
"No. You 're quite right; it is not."
"The very sight of skittles," Mr. Pecksniff eloquently pursued, "is far from being congenial to a delicate mind."
"It's an amusement of the vulgar," said old Martin, "certainly."
"Of the very vulgar," Mr. Pecksniff answered. "Then why not bring Miss Graham here, Sir? Here is the house! Here am I alone in it, for Thomas Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my daughter's chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I hope!"
"We are not likely to do that," said Martin.
Mr. Pecksniff pressed his hand. "We understand each other, my dear Sir, I see!—I can wind him," he thought, with exultation, "round my little finger!"
"You leave the recompense to me?" said the old man, after a minute's silence.
"Oh! Do not speak of recompense!" cried Pecksniff.
"I say," repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, "you leave the recompense to me. Do you!"
"Since you desire it, my good Sir."
"I always desire it," said the old man. "You know I always desire it. I wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff."
The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear upon his patron's hand, but couldn't find one in his dry distillery.
"May that day be very distant!" was his pious exclamation. "Ah Sir! If I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to our beautiful young friend."
"True," he answered. "True. She need have some one interested in her. I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my whim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no protector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that any dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!"
