They got into the street as the bell began to ring, Mr Meagles carrying the box. Little Dorrit had no conveyance there: which rather surprised him. He called a coach for her and she got into it, and he placed the box beside her when she was seated. In her joy and gratitude she kissed his hand.

‘I don’t like that, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘It goes against my feeling of what’s right, that you should do homage to me—at the Marshalsea Gate.’

She bent forward, and kissed his cheek.

‘You remind me of the days,’ said Mr Meagles, suddenly drooping— ‘but she’s very fond of him, and hides his faults, and thinks that no one sees them—and he certainly is well connected and of a very good family!’

It was the only comfort he had in the loss of his daughter, and if he made the most of it, who could blame him?