Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his presence. One instant, and it would have beat against his breast.
But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence stopped. Striving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di had not burst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home—at which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted her attention from herself—she would have swooned upon the floor.
“Florence,” said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that it held her off: “how do you do?”
Florence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it, with quite as much endearment as it had touched her.
“What dog is that?” said Mr Dombey, displeased.
“It is a dog, Papa—from Brighton.”
“Well!” said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he understood her.
“He is very good-tempered,” said Florence, addressing herself with her natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. “He is only glad to see me. Pray forgive him.”
She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had screamed, and who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who stood near her Papa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.