“An ancient flame, Sir,” chuckled Major Bagstock. “Devilish ancient. I humour her.”
“She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,” said Mr Dombey.
“Genteel, Sir,” said the Major, stopping short, and staring in his companion’s face. “The Honourable Mrs Skewton, Sir, is sister to the late Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not wealthy—they’re poor, indeed—and she lives upon a small jointure; but if you come to blood, Sir!” The Major gave a flourish with his stick and walked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came to, if you came to that.
“You addressed the daughter, I observed,” said Mr Dombey, after a short pause, “as Mrs Granger.”
“Edith Skewton, Sir,” returned the Major, stopping short again, and punching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her, “married (at eighteen) Granger of Ours;” whom the Major indicated by another punch. “Granger, Sir,” said the Major, tapping the last ideal portrait, and rolling his head emphatically, “was Colonel of Ours; a de-vilish handsome fellow, Sir, of forty-one. He died, Sir, in the second year of his marriage.” The Major ran the representative of the deceased Granger through and through the body with his walking-stick, and went on again, carrying his stick over his shoulder.
“How long is this ago?” asked Mr Dombey, making another halt.
“Edith Granger, Sir,” replied the Major, shutting one eye, putting his head on one side, passing his cane into his left hand, and smoothing his shirt-frill with his right, “is, at this present time, not quite thirty. And damme, Sir,” said the Major, shouldering his stick once more, and walking on again, “she’s a peerless woman!”
“Was there any family?” asked Mr Dombey presently.
“Yes, Sir,” said the Major. “There was a boy.”
Mr Dombey’s eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face.