“You’ve been as far as the gate then, Mr. Venus?”
“Yes, Mr. Wegg, and peeped in from curiosity.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Nothing but the dust-yard.”
Mr. Wegg rolls his eyes all round the room, in that ever unsatisfied quest of his, and then rolls his eyes all round Mr. Venus; as if suspicious of his having something about him to be found out.
“And yet, sir,” he pursues, “being acquainted with old Mr. Harmon, one would have thought it might have been polite in you, too, to give him a call. And you’re naturally of a polite disposition, you are.” This last clause as a softening compliment to Mr. Venus.
“It is true, sir,” replies Venus, winking his weak eyes, and running his fingers through his dusty shock of hair, “that I was so, before a certain observation soured me. You understand to what I allude, Mr. Wegg? To a certain written statement respecting not wishing to be regarded in a certain light. Since that, all is fled, save gall.”
“Not all,” says Mr. Wegg, in a tone of sentimental condolence.
“Yes, sir,” returns Venus, “all! The world may deem it harsh, but I’d quite as soon pitch into my best friend as not. Indeed, I’d sooner!”
Involuntarily making a pass with his wooden leg to guard himself as Mr. Venus springs up in the emphasis of this unsociable declaration, Mr. Wegg tilts over on his back, chair and all, and is rescued by that harmless misanthrope, in a disjointed state and ruefully rubbing his head.
“Why, you lost your balance, Mr. Wegg,” says Venus, handing him his pipe.