Mrs Pipchin always used that form of words. It meant, considering her virtues, sacrifices, and so forth.
“I can’t expect, Sir, to be very well,” said Mrs Pipchin, taking a chair and fetching her breath; “but such health as I have, I am grateful for.”
Mr Dombey inclined his head with the satisfied air of a patron, who felt that this was the sort of thing for which he paid so much a quarter. After a moment’s silence he went on to say:
“Mrs Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to consult you in reference to my son. I have had it in my mind to do so for some time past; but have deferred it from time to time, in order that his health might be thoroughly re-established. You have no misgivings on that subject, Mrs Pipchin?”
“Brighton has proved very beneficial, Sir,” returned Mrs Pipchin. “Very beneficial, indeed.”
“I purpose,” said Mr Dombey, “his remaining at Brighton.”
Mrs Pipchin rubbed her hands, and bent her grey eyes on the fire.
“But,” pursued Mr Dombey, stretching out his forefinger, “but possibly that he should now make a change, and lead a different kind of life here. In short, Mrs Pipchin, that is the object of my visit. My son is getting on, Mrs Pipchin. Really, he is getting on.”
There was something melancholy in the triumphant air with which Mr Dombey said this. It showed how long Paul’s childish life had been to him, and how his hopes were set upon a later stage of his existence. Pity may appear a strange word to connect with anyone so haughty and so cold, and yet he seemed a worthy subject for it at that moment.
“Six years old!” said Mr Dombey, settling his neckcloth—perhaps to hide an irrepressible smile that rather seemed to strike upon the surface of his face and glance away, as finding no resting-place, than to play there for an instant. “Dear me, six will be changed to sixteen, before we have time to look about us.”