In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of some hauling on the part of Susan Nipper, little Florence broke away, and kissed her new friend affectionately, but Susan Nipper made a charge at her, and swept her out of the room.

When Polly Richards was left alone, her heart was sore for the motherless little girl, and she determined to devise some means of having Florence beside her lawfully and without rebellion.  An opening happened to present itself that very night.

She had been rung down into the conservatory, as usual, and was walking about with the baby in her arms, when Mr. Dombey came up and stopped her.

“He looks thriving,” said Mr. Dombey, glancing with great interest at Paul’s tiny face, which she uncovered for his observation.  “They give you everything that you want, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, sir;”

She hesitated so, however, that Mr. Dombey stopped again and looked at her inquiringly.

“I believe nothing is so good for making children lively, sir, as seeing other children playing about them,” observed Polly, taking courage.

“I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you came here,” said Mr. Dombey, with a frown; “that I wished you to see as little of your family as possible.  You can continue your walk, if you please.”

With that he disappeared into an inner room, and Polly felt that she had fallen into disgrace without the least advancement of her purpose; but next night when she came down, he called her to him.  “If you really think that kind of society is good for the child,” he said sharply, as if there had been no interval since she proposed it, “where’s Miss Florence?”

“Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, sir,” said Polly eagerly, “but I understood from her little maid that they were not to—­” But Mr. Dombey rang the bell, and gave his orders before she had a chance to finish the sentence.

“Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she chooses,” he commanded; and, the iron being hot, Richards striking on it boldly, requested that the child might be sent down at once to make friends with her little brother.

When Florence timidly presented herself, had Mr. Dombey looked towards her with a father’s eye, he might have read in her keen glance the passionate desire to run to him, crying, “Oh, father, try to love me,—­there is no one else”; the dread of a repulse; the fear of being too bold and of offending him.  But he saw nothing of this.  He saw her pause at the door and look towards him, and he saw no more.

“Come here, Florence,” said her father coldly.  “Have you nothing to say to me?”

The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face, were frozen by the expression it wore.  She looked down again, and put out her trembling hand, which Mr. Dombey took loosely in his own.

“There! be a good girl,” he said, patting her on the head, and regarding her with a disturbed and doubtful look, “go to Richards! go!”