Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy.
‘Father,’ said Louisa, ‘do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?’
Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. ‘Well, my child,’ he returned, ‘I—really—cannot take upon myself to say.’
‘Father,’ pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, ‘do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?’
‘My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing.’
‘Father,’ she still pursued, ‘does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?’
‘Really, my dear,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘it is difficult to answer your question—’
‘Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?
‘Certainly, my dear. Because;’ here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; ‘because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself—I merely suggest this to you, my dear—may be a little misplaced.’
‘What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?’