"No one can be a stranger," said Mrs. Skewton, "to Mr. Dombey’s immense influence."
As Mr. Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head, the younger lady glancing at him, met his eyes.
"You reside here, Madam?" said Mr. Dombey, addressing her.
"No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrowgate and Scarborough, and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there. Mama likes change."
"Edith of course does not," said Mrs. Skewton, with a ghastly archness.
"I have not found that there is any change in such places," was the answer, delivered with supreme indifference.
"They libel me. There is only one change, Mr. Dombey," observed Mrs. Skewton, with a mincing sigh, "for which I really care, and that I fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But seclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name—"
"If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself intelligible," said the younger lady.
"My dearest Edith," returned Mrs. Skewton, "you know that I am wholly dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr. Dombey, Nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows—and china."
This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the celebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received with perfect gravity by Mr. Dombey, who intimated his opinion that Nature was, no doubt, a very respectable institution.
"What I want," drawled Mrs. Skewton, pinching her shrivelled throat, "is heart." It was frightfully true in one sense, if not in that in which she used the phrase. "What I want, is frankness, confidence, less conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully artificial."
We were, indeed.
"In short," said Mrs. Skewton, "I want Nature everywhere. It would be so extremely charming."
"Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready," said the younger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who had been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind it, as if the ground had swallowed him up.
"Stop a moment, Withers!" said Mrs. Skewton, as the chair began to move; calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had called in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay, and silk stockings. "Where are you staying, abomination?"
The Major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his friend Dombey.
"You may come and see us any evening when you are good," lisped Mrs. Skewton. "If Mr. Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. Withers, go on!"
The Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful carelessness, after the Cleopatra model: and Mr. Dombey bowed. The elder lady honoured them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish wave of her hand; the younger lady with the very slightest inclination of her head that common courtesy allowed.
