ety is
that the failure should be a good round one--not less than a hundred
thousand pound. Mr Perch don't think himself that a hundred thousand
pound will nearly cover it. The women, led by Mrs Perch and Cook, often
repeat 'a hun-dred thou-sand pound!' with awful satisfaction--as if
handling the words were like handling the money; and the housemaid, who
has her eye on Mr Towlinson, wishes she had only a hundredth part of the
sum to bestow on the man of her choice. Mr Towlinson, still mindful of
his old wrong, opines that a foreigner would hardly know what to do with
so much money, unless he spent it on his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm
causes the housemaid to withdraw in tears.

But not to remain long absent; for Cook, who has the reputation of being
extremely good-hearted, says, whatever they do, let 'em stand by one
another now, Towlinson, for there's no telling how soon they may be
divided. They have been in that house (says Cook) through a funeral, a
wedding, and a running-away; and let it not be said that they couldn't
agree among themselves at such a time as the present. Mrs Perch is
immensely affected by this moving address, and openly remarks that Cook
is an angel. Mr Towlinson replies to Cook, far be it from him to
stand in the way of that good feeling which he could wish to see; and
adjourning in quest of the housemaid, and presently returning with that
young lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreigners is only his
fun, and that him and Anne have now resolved to take one another
for better for worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in the general
greengrocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is
particular requested. This announcement is received with acclamation;
and Mrs Perch, projecting her soul into futurity, says, 'girls,' in
Cook's ear, in a solemn whisper.

Misfortune in the family without feasting, in these lower regions,
couldn't be. Therefore Cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper,
and Mr Towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same
hospitable purpose. Even Mrs Pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings
her bell, and sends down word that she requests to have that little bit
of sweetbread that was left, warmed up for her supper, and sent to her
on a tray with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry; for
she feels poorly.

There is a little talk about Mr Dombey, but very little. It is chiefly
speculation as to how long he has known that this was