The morning remained squally, and the streets were miserably muddy, but
no rain fell as they walked towards the Iron Bridge. The little creature
seemed so young in his eyes, that there were moments when he found
himself thinking of her, if not speaking to her, as if she were a child.
Perhaps he seemed as old in her eyes as she seemed young in his.

'I am sorry to hear you were so inconvenienced last night, sir, as to be
locked in. It was very unfortunate.'

It was nothing, he returned. He had had a very good bed.

'Oh yes!' she said quickly; 'she believed there were excellent beds at
the coffee-house.' He noticed that the coffee-house was quite a majestic
hotel to her, and that she treasured its reputation. 'I believe it is
very expensive,' said Little Dorrit, 'but MY father has told me that
quite beautiful dinners may be got there. And wine,' she added timidly.
'Were you ever there?'

'Oh no! Only into the kitchen to fetch hot water.'

To think of growing up with a kind of awe upon one as to the luxuries of
that superb establishment, the Marshalsea Hotel!

'I asked you last night,' said Clennam, 'how you had become acquainted
with my mother. Did you ever hear her name before she sent for you?'

'No, sir.'

'Do you think your father ever did?'

'No, sir.'

He met her eyes raised to his with so much wonder in them (she was
scared when the encounter took place, and shrunk away again), that he
felt it necessary to say:

'I have a reason for asking, which I cannot very well explain; but you
must, on no account, suppose it to be of a nature to cause you the least
alarm or anxiety. Quite the reverse. And you think that at no time of
your father's life was my name of Clennam ever familiar to him?'

'No, sir.'

He felt, from the tone in which she spoke, that she was glancing up at
him with those parted lips; therefore he looked before him, rather than
make her heart beat quicker still by embarrassing her afresh.

Thus they emerged upon the Iron Bridge, which was as quiet after the
roaring streets as though it had been open country. The wind blew
roughly, the wet squalls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on
the road and pavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds
raced on furiously in the lead-Coloured sky, the smoke and mist raced
after them, the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction.
Little Dorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven's
creatures.