But this is from the purpose. Polly only thought, at that time, of improving on her successful propitiation of Miss Nipper, and devising some means of having little Florence aide her, lawfully, and without rebellion. An opening happened to present itself that very night.
She had been rung down into the glass room as usual, and had walked about and about it a long time, with the baby in her arms, when, to her great surprise and dismay, Mr Dombey—whom she had seen at first leaning on his elbow at the table, and afterwards walking up and down the middle room, drawing, each time, a little nearer, she thought, to the open folding doors—came out, suddenly, and stopped before her.
“Good evening, Richards.”
Just the same austere, stiff gentleman, as he had appeared to her on that first day. Such a hard-looking gentleman, that she involuntarily dropped her eyes and her curtsey at the same time.
“How is Master Paul, Richards?”
“Quite thriving, Sir, and well.”
“He looks so,” said Mr Dombey, glancing with great interest at the tiny face she uncovered for his observation, and yet affecting to be half careless of it. “They give you everything you want, I hope?”
“Oh yes, thank you, Sir.”
She suddenly appended such an obvious hesitation to this reply, however, that Mr Dombey, who had turned away; stopped, and turned round again, inquiringly.
“If you please, Sir, the child is very much disposed to take notice of things,” said Richards, with another curtsey, “and—upstairs is a little dull for him, perhaps, Sir.”