I am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the goodness to inform Mrs. Dombey that if she has no respect for herself, I have some respect for myself, and therefore insist on my arrangements for to-morrow."
"Tell your sovereign master, Sir," said Edith, "that I will take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will speak to him alone."
"Mr. Carker, Madam," said her husband, "being in possession of the reason which obliges me to refuse you that privilege, shall be absolved from the delivery of any such message." He saw her eyes move, while he spoke, and followed them with his own.
"Your daughter is present, Sir," said Edith.
"My daughter will remain present," said Mr. Dombey.
Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her hands, and trembling.
"My daughter, Madam"—began Mr. Dombey.
But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been heard in a whirlwind.
"I tell you I will speak to you alone," she said. "If you are not mad, heed what I say."
"I have authority to speak to you, Madam," returned her husband, "when and where I please; and it is my pleasure to speak here and now."
She rose up as if to leave the room; but sat down again, and looking at him with all outward composure, said, in the same voice:
"You shall!"
"I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance in your manner, Madam," said Mr. Dombey, "which does not become you."
She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started and trembled. There are fables of precious stones that would turn pale, their wearer being in danger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of light would have taken flight that moment, and they would have been as dull as lead.
Carker listened, with his eyes cast down.
"As to my daughter, Madam," said Mr. Dombey, resuming the thread of his discourse, "it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to me, that she should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by it."
"I would not stop you now," returned his wife, immoveable in eye, and voice, and attitude; "I would not rise and go away, and save you the utterance of one word, if the room were burning."
Mr. Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic acknowledgment of the attention, and resumed. But not with so much self-possession as before; for Edith’s quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith’s indifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled him like a stiffening wound.
"Mrs. Dombey," said he, "it may not be inconsistent with my daughter’s improvement to know how very much to be lamented, and how necessary to be corrected, a stubborn disposition is, especially when it is indulged in—unthankfully indulged in, I will add—after the gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, I believe, had some share in inducing you to occupy your present station at this board."
