took the delivery of this invitation. Will you honour us so far, Ma’am?" said the Major, swelling with shortness of breath and slyness, as he produced a note, addressed to the Honourable Mrs. Skewton, by favour of Major Bagstock, wherein her's ever faithfully, Paul Dombey, besought her and her amiable and accomplished daughter to consent to the proposed excursion; and in a postscript unto which, the same ever faithfully Paul Dombey entreated to be recalled to the remembrance of Mrs. Granger.
"Hush!" said Cleopatra, suddenly, "Edith!"
The loving mother can scarcely be described as resuming her insipid and affected air when she made this exclamation; for she had never cast it off; nor was it likely that she ever would or could, in any other place than in the grave. But hurriedly dismissing whatever shadow of earnestness, or faint confession of a purpose, laudable or wicked, that her face, or voice, or manner: had, for the moment, betrayed, she lounged upon the couch, her most insipid and most languid self again, as Edith entered the room.
Edith, so beautiful and stately, but so cold and so repelling. Who, slightly acknowledging the presence of Major Bagstock, and directing a keen glance at her mother, drew back from a window, and sat down there, looking out.
"My dearest Edith," said Mrs. Skewton, "where on earth have you been? I have wanted you, my love, most sadly."
"You said you were engaged, and I stayed away," she answered, without turning her head.
"It was cruel to Old Joe, Ma’am," said the Major in his gallantry.
"It was very cruel, I know," she said, still looking out—and said with such calm disdain, that the Major was discomfited, and could think of nothing in reply.
"Major Bagstock, my darling Edith," drawled her mother, "who is generally the most useless and disagreeable creature in the world: as you know—"
"It is surely not worth while, Mama," said Edith, looking round, "to observe these forms of speech. We are quite alone. We know each other."
The quiet scorn that sat upon her handsome face—a scorn that evidently lighted on herself, no less than them—was so intense and deep, that her mother’s simper, for the instant, though of a hardy constitution, drooped before it.
"My darling girl," she began again.
"Not woman yet?" said Edith, with a smile.
"How very odd you are to-day, my dear! Pray let me say, my love, that Major Bagstock has brought the kindest of notes from Mr. Dombey, proposing that we should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to Warwick and Kenilworth. Will you go, Edith?"
"Will I go!" she repeated, turning very red, and breathing quickly as she looked round at her mother.
"I knew you would, my own," observed the latter carelessly. "It is, as you say, quite a form to ask. Here is Mr. Dombey’s letter, Edith."
"Thank you. I have no desire to read it," was her answer.
"Then perhaps I had better answer it myself," said Mrs. Skewton,
