“Are you going?” asked Florence, rising.
“I don’t know, though. No, not just at present,” said Mr Toots, sitting down again, most unexpectedly. “The fact is—I say, Miss Dombey!”
“Don’t be afraid to speak to me,” said Florence, with a quiet smile, “I should be very glad if you would talk about my brother.”
“Would you, though?” retorted Mr Toots, with sympathy in every fibre of his otherwise expressionless face. “Poor Dombey! I’m sure I never thought that Burgess and Co.—fashionable tailors (but very dear), that we used to talk about—would make this suit of clothes for such a purpose.” Mr Toots was dressed in mourning. “Poor Dombey! I say! Miss Dombey!” blubbered Toots.
“Yes,” said Florence.
“There’s a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you’d like to have him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remembering Diogenes?”
“Oh yes! oh yes” cried Florence.
“Poor Dombey! So do I,” said Mr Toots.
Mr Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting beyond this point, and had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a chuckle saved him on the brink.
“I say,” he proceeded, “Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen for ten shillings, if they hadn’t given him up: and I would: but they were glad to get rid of him, I think. If you’d like to have him, he’s at the door. I brought him on purpose for you. He ain’t a lady’s dog, you know,” said Mr Toots, “but you won’t mind that, will you?”