red her name, since. His household dread him
too much to approach a subject on which he is resolutely dumb; and the
only person who dares question him, he silences immediately.

'My dear Paul!' murmurs his sister, sidling into the room, on the day
of Florence's departure, 'your wife! that upstart woman! Is it possible
that what I hear confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for
your unparalleled devotion to her; extending, I am sure, even to the
sacrifice of your own relations, to her caprices and haughtiness? My
poor brother!'

With this speech feelingly reminiscent of her not having been asked to
dinner on the day of the first party, Mrs Chick makes great use of
her pocket-handkerchief, and falls on Mr Dombey's neck. But Mr Dombey
frigidly lifts her off, and hands her to a chair.

'I thank you, Louisa,' he says, 'for this mark of your affection; but
desire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. When
I bewail my fate, Louisa, or express myself as being in want of
consolation, you can offer it, if you will have the goodness.'

'My dear Paul,' rejoins his sister, with her handkerchief to her face,
and shaking her head, 'I know your great spirit, and will say no more
upon a theme so painful and revolting;' on the heads of which two
adjectives, Mrs Chick visits scathing indignation; 'but pray let me
ask you--though I dread to hear something that will shock and distress
me--that unfortunate child Florence--

'Louisa!' says her brother, sternly, 'silence! Not another word of
this!'

Mrs Chick can only shake her head, and use her handkerchief, and moan
over degenerate Dombeys, who are no Dombeys. But whether Florence has
been inculpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or has done
too much, or too little, or anything, or nothing, she has not the least
idea.

He goes on, without deviation, keeping his thoughts and feelings close
within his own breast, and imparting them to no one. He makes no search
for his daughter. He may think that she is with his sister, or that she
is under his own roof. He may think of her constantly, or he may never
think about her. It is all one for any sign he makes.

But this is sure; he does not think that he has lost her. He has no
suspicion of the truth. He has lived too long shut up in his towering
supremacy, seeing her, a patient gentle creature, in the path below it,
to have any fear of that. Shaken as he is by his disgrace, he is not
yet humbled to