quested to
attend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there?

Someone comes forward, and says 'Yes.'

Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him, with
his hand upon the wall, the shape and size; and how it is to follow
the memorial to the mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the
inscription, and gives it to him: adding, 'I wish to have it done at
once.

'It shall be done immediately, Sir.'

'There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.'

The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr Dombey
not observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch.

'I beg your pardon, Sir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak;
'but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when I
get back--'

'Well?'

'Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a mistake.'

'Where?'

The statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his pocket
rule, the words, 'beloved and only child.'

'It should be, "son," I think, Sir?'

'You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'

The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the
other three, who follow closely, take their seats, his face is hidden
for the first time--shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more
that day. He alights first, and passes immediately into his own room.
The other mourners (who are only Mr Chick, and two of the medical
attendants) proceed upstairs to the drawing-room, to be received by
Mrs Chick and Miss Tox. And what the face is, in the shut-up chamber
underneath: or what the thoughts are: what the heart is, what the
contest or the suffering: no one knows.

The chief thing that they know, below stairs, in the kitchen, is that
'it seems like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but that
there is something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the
people out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations, and wear
their everyday attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds up, and
the shutters open; and they make themselves dismally comfortable over
bottles of wine, which are freely broached as on a festival. They are
much inclined to moralise. Mr Towlinson proposes with a sigh, 'Amendment
to us all!' for which, as Cook says with another sigh, 'There's room
enough, God knows.' In the evening, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox take to
needlework again. In the evening also, Mr Towlinson goes out to tak