“My daughter, Madam”—began Mr Dombey.
But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been heard in a whirlwind.
“I tell you I will speak to you alone,” she said. “If you are not mad, heed what I say.”
“I have authority to speak to you, Madam,” returned her husband, “when and where I please; and it is my pleasure to speak here and now.”
She rose up as if to leave the room; but sat down again, and looking at him with all outward composure, said, in the same voice:
“You shall!”
“I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance in your manner, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, “which does not become you.”
She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started and trembled. There are fables of precious stones that would turn pale, their wearer being in danger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of light would have taken flight that moment, and they would have been as dull as lead.
Carker listened, with his eyes cast down.
“As to my daughter, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, resuming the thread of his discourse, “it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to me, that she should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by it.”