“Permit me,” said the Doctor, “one moment. Allow me to present Mrs Blimber and my daughter; who will be associated with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim to Parnassus Mrs Blimber,” for the lady, who had perhaps been in waiting, opportunely entered, followed by her daughter, that fair Sexton in spectacles, “Mr Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, Mr Dombey. Mr Dombey, my love,” pursued the Doctor, turning to his wife, “is so confiding as to—do you see our little friend?”
Mrs Blimber, in an excess of politeness, of which Mr Dombey was the object, apparently did not, for she was backing against the little friend, and very much endangering his position on the table. But, on this hint, she turned to admire his classical and intellectual lineaments, and turning again to Mr Dombey, said, with a sigh, that she envied his dear son.
“Like a bee, Sir,” said Mrs Blimber, with uplifted eyes, “about to plunge into a garden of the choicest flowers, and sip the sweets for the first time Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Terence, Plautus, Cicero. What a world of honey have we here. It may appear remarkable, Mr Dombey, in one who is a wife—the wife of such a husband—”
“Hush, hush,” said Doctor Blimber. “Fie for shame.”
“Mr Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife,” said Mrs Blimber, with an engaging smile.
Mr Dombey answered “Not at all:” applying those words, it is to be presumed, to the partiality, and not to the forgiveness.
“And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother also,” resumed Mrs Blimber.
“And such a mother,” observed Mr Dombey, bowing with some confused idea of being complimentary to Cornelia.
“But really,” pursued Mrs Blimber, “I think if I could have known Cicero, and been his friend, and talked with him in his retirement at Tusculum (beau-ti-ful Tusculum!), I could have died contented.”
A learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr Dombey half believed this was exactly his case; and even Mrs Pipchin, who was not, as we have seen, of an accommodating disposition generally, gave utterance to a little sound between a groan and a sigh, as if she would have said that nobody but Cicero could have proved a lasting consolation under that failure of the Peruvian Mines, but that he indeed would have been a very Davy-lamp of refuge.