“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.