'Mrs Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice,
'there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence
in what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard
it--such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs Nickleby--he'd have
me out before dinner-time.'
Mrs Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had
walked to the window; and Mr Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on:
'Your daughter has made a conquest--a conquest on which I may
congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her
devoted slave. Hem!'
'Hah!' cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the
chimney-piece with a theatrical air. 'What is this! what do I behold!'
'What DO you behold, my dear fellow?' asked Mr Pluck.
'It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr Pyke,
falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; 'feebly
portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still THE face, THE countenance, THE
expression.'
'I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit of
enthusiasm. 'Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of--'
'It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs Nickleby, with great pride.
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