At the end of a week, as Paul was no stronger, though he looked much healthier in the face, a little carriage was got for him, in which he could be wheeled down to the seaside.  Consistent in his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy faced lad, who was proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected instead, his grandfather, Glubb by name, a weazen, old, crab-faced man, in a suit of battered oilskins, who smelt like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out.  With this notable attendant to pull him along and Florence always by his side, he went down to the margin of the ocean every day; and there he would sit or lie in his carriage for hours together, never so distressed as at the company of children.

He had even a dislike at such times to the company of nurse Wickham, and was well pleased when she strolled away.  His favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers, and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or reading to him, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming up among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more.

For a year the children stayed at Brighton, going home but twice during that time for a few days, but every Sunday Mr. Dombey spent with them at the Brighton Hotel.

During the year Paul had grown strong enough to give up his carriage, though he still looked thin and delicate, and still remained the same dreamy, quiet child that he had been when consigned to Mrs. Pipchin’s care.

At length, on a Saturday afternoon, Mr. Dombey appeared with the news that he was thinking of removing Paul to the school of one Doctor Blimber, also at Brighton.

“I have had some communication with the doctor, Mrs. Pipchin,” said Mr. Dombey, “and he does not think Paul at all too young for his purposes.  My son is getting on, Mrs. Pipchin, really he is getting on.”

“Six years old!” said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth.  “Dear me! six will be changed to sixteen before we have time to look about us; and there is no doubt, I fear, that in his studies he is behind many children of his age—­or his youth,” said Mr. Dombey—­“his youth is a more appropriate expression.

“Now, Mrs. Pipchin, instead of being behind his peers, my son ought to be before them, far before them.  There is an eminence ready for him to mount on.  There is nothing of chance or doubt before my son.  The education of such a young gentleman must not be delayed.  It must not be left imperfect.  It must be very steadily and seriously undertaken, Mrs. Pipchin.”

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Pipchin, “I can say nothing to the contrary.”  And so to Doctor Blimber’s Paul was sent.

The doctor’s was a mighty fine house fronting the sea.  Upon its doorstep one day Paul stood with a fluttering heart, and with his small right hand in his father’s.  His other hand was locked in that of Florence.  The doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each knee, books all round him, Homer over the door and Minerva on the mantel-shelf.