“My dear Paul,” returned Mrs Chick, “with your usual happy discrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you, every time I am in your company; and so I think is Miss Tox.”
“Oh my dear!” said Miss Tox, softly, “how could it be otherwise? Presumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level; still, if the bird of night may—but I’ll not trouble Mr Dombey with the sentiment. It merely relates to the Bulbul.”
Mr Dombey bent his head in stately recognition of the Bulbuls as an old-established body.
“With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul,” resumed Mrs Chick, “you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether as stout as we could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the way in which that dear child talks!” said Mrs Chick, shaking her head; “no one would believe. His expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject of Funerals!”
“I am afraid,” said Mr Dombey, interrupting her testily, “that some of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He was speaking to me last night about his—about his Bones,” said Mr Dombey, laying an irritated stress upon the word. “What on earth has anybody to do with the—with the—Bones of my son? He is not a living skeleton, I suppose.”
“Very far from it,” said Mrs Chick, with unspeakable expression.
“I hope so,” returned her brother. “Funerals again! who talks to the child of funerals? We are not undertakers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I believe.”
“Very far from it,” interposed Mrs Chick, with the same profound expression as before.
“Then who puts such things into his head?” said Mr Dombey. “Really I was quite dismayed and shocked last night. Who puts such things into his head, Louisa?”
“My dear Paul,” said Mrs Chick, after a moment’s silence, “it is of no use inquiring. I do not think, I will tell you candidly that Wickam is a person of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call a—”