Thus clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the world.

Mr. Dombey, in the days to come, could not forget that closing scene—­ that he had had no part in it; that he had stood a mere spectator while those two figures lay clasped in each other’s arms.  His previous feelings of indifference towards his little daughter Florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind.  He had never conceived an aversion to her; it had not been worth his while or in his humour.  But now he was ill at ease about her.  He read nothing in her glance, when he saw her later in the solemn house, of the passionate desire to run clinging to him, and the dread of a repulse; the pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement.  He saw nothing of this.

II.—­Mrs. Pipchin’s

In spite of his early promise, all the vigilance and care bestowed upon him could not make little Paul a thriving boy.  There was something wan and wistful in his look, and he had a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful way of sitting brooding in his miniature armchair.

The medical practitioner recommended sea-air, and Mrs. Pipchin, who conducted an infantile boarding house of a very select description at Brighton, and whose scale of charges was high, was entrusted with the care of Paul’s health when he was little more than five years old.

Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, with a mottled face like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard grey eye.  It was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a woman of system with children, and no doubt she was.  Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof.

At this exemplary old lady Paul would sit staring in his little armchair by the fire for any length of time.  He was not fond of her, he was not afraid of her.

Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.

“You,” said Paul, without the least reserve.  “I’m thinking how old you must be.”

“You mustn’t say such things as that, young gentleman,” returned the dame.

“Why not?” asked Paul.

“Because it’s not polite!” said Mrs. Pipchin, snappishly.

“Not polite?” said Paul.

“No!  And remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions!”

“If the bull was mad,” said Paul, “how did he know that the boy had asked questions?  Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull.  I don’t believe that story.”

“You don’t believe it, sir?”

“No,” said Paul.

“Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little infidel?” said Mrs. Pipchin.

As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, he allowed himself to be put down for the present.