Mr. Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him on the head. "You'll know better, by and by, my man," he said. "Money, Paul, can do anything."
"Anything, papa?"
"Yes. Anything—almost," said Mr. Dombey.
"Anything means everything, don't it, papa?" asked his son, not observing, or possibly not understanding the qualification.
"Yes," said Mr. Dombey.
"Why didn't money save me my mamma?" returned the child. "It isn't cruel, is it?"
"Cruel!" said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to resent the idea. "No. A good thing can't be cruel."
"If it's a good thing, and can do anything," said the little fellow thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, "I wonder why it didn't save me my mamma."
Mr. Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm (for it was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the subject of his mother to him), expounded to him how that money, though a very potent spirit, could not keep people alive whose time was come to die; and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the city, though we were never so rich.
Paul listened to all this and much more with grave attention, and then suddenly asked a question which was still more alarming.