Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily described, further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered, “Very quiet indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.”
“When I was a child,” said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing for some moments, “did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the trouble to ride down here to speak to me, now three times—three times, I think, Susan?”
“Three times, Miss,” returned the Nipper. “Once when you was out a walking with them Sket—”
Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself.
“With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young gentleman. And two evenings since then.”
“When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, did you ever see that gentleman at home, Susan?” asked Florence.
“Well, Miss,” returned her maid, after considering, “I really couldn’t say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new in the family, you see, and my element:” the Nipper bridled, as opining that her merits had been always designedly extinguished by Mr Dombey: “was the floor below the attics.”
“To be sure,” said Florence, still thoughtfully; “you are not likely to have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.”
“Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors,” said Susan, “and but what I heard much said, although the nurse before Mrs Richards make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing,” observed Susan, with composed forbearance, “to habits of intoxication, for which she was required to leave, and did.”
Florence, who was seated at her chamber window, with her face resting on her hand, sat looking out, and hardly seemed to hear what Susan said, she was so lost in thought.