aring his throat in a manner that augured no good,
said:

'Mrs Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the housekeeper
that there will be some company to dinner here to-morrow.

'I do not dine at home,' she answered.

'Not a large party,' pursued Mr Dombey, with an indifferent assumption
of not having heard her; 'merely some twelve or fourteen. My sister,
Major Bagstock, and some others whom you know but slightly.'

I do not dine at home,' she repeated.

'However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, still
going majestically on, as if she had not spoken, 'to hold the occasion
in very pleasant remembrance just now, there are appearances in these
things which must be maintained before the world. If you have no respect
for yourself, Mrs Dombey--'

'I have none,' she said.

'Madam,' cried Mr Dombey, striking his hand upon the table, 'hear me if
you please. I say, if you have no respect for yourself--'

'And I say I have none,' she answered.

He looked at her; but the face she showed him in return would not have
changed, if death itself had looked.

'Carker,' said Mr Dombey, turning more quietly to that gentleman, 'as
you have been my medium of communication with Mrs Dombey on former
occasions, and as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far as
I am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the goodness to
inform Mrs Dombey that if she has no respect for herself, I have
some respect for myself, and therefore insist on my arrangements for
to-morrow.

'Tell your sovereign master, Sir,' said Edith, 'that I will take leave
to speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will speak to him
alone.'

'Mr Carker, Madam,' said her husband, 'being in possession of the reason
which obliges me to refuse you that privilege, shall be absolved from
the delivery of any such message.' He saw her eyes move, while he spoke,
and followed them with his own.

'Your daughter is present, Sir,' said Edith.

'My daughter will remain present,' said Mr Dombey.

Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her hands,
and trembling.

'My daughter, Madam'--began Mr Dombey.

But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the
least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been
heard in a whirlwind.

'I tell you I will speak to you alone,' she said. 'If you are not mad,
heed what I say.'

'I have authority to speak to you, Madam,