ided second attack of her malady, the
old woman seemed to have crawled backward in her recovery from the
first. She was more lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility,
and made stranger confusions in her mind and memory. Among other
symptoms of this last affliction, she fell into the habit of confounding
the names of her two sons-in-law, the living and the deceased; and
in general called Mr Dombey, either 'Grangeby,' or 'Domber,' or
indifferently, both.

But she was youthful, very youthful still; and in her youthfulness
appeared at breakfast, before going away, in a new bonnet made express,
and a travelling robe that was embroidered and braided like an old
baby's. It was not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, or to
keep the bonnet in its place on the back of her poor nodding head, when
it was got on. In this instance, it had not only the extraneous effect
of being always on one side, but of being perpetually tapped on the
crown by Flowers the maid, who attended in the background during
breakfast to perform that duty.

'Now, my dearest Grangeby,' said Mrs Skewton, 'you must posively prom,'
she cut some of her words short, and cut out others altogether, 'come
down very soon.'

'I said just now, Madam,' returned Mr Dombey, loudly and laboriously,
'that I am coming in a day or two.'

'Bless you, Domber!'

Here the Major, who was come to take leave of the ladies, and who was
staring through his apoplectic eyes at Mrs Skewton's face with the
disinterested composure of an immortal being, said:

'Begad, Ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come!'

'Sterious wretch, who's he?' lisped Cleopatra. But a tap on the bonnet
from Flowers seeming to jog her memory, she added, 'Oh! You mean
yourself, you naughty creature!'

'Devilish queer, Sir,' whispered the Major to Mr Dombey. 'Bad case.
Never did wrap up enough;' the Major being buttoned to the chin.
'Why who should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock--Joseph--your
slave--Joe, Ma'am? Here! Here's the man! Here are the Bagstock bellows,
Ma'am!' cried the Major, striking himself a sounding blow on the chest.

'My dearest Edith--Grangeby--it's most trordinry thing,' said Cleopatra,
pettishly, 'that Major--'

'Bagstock! J. B.!' cried the Major, seeing that she faltered for his
name.

'Well, it don't matter,' said Cleopatra. 'Edith, my love, you know I
never could remember names--what was it? oh!--most trordinry thing that
so many people want to come down