"Oh!" cried Mrs. Skewton, with a faded little scream of rapture, "the Castle is charming!—associations of the Middle Ages—and all that—which is so truly exquisite. Don’t you dote upon the Middle Ages, Mr. Carker?"
"Very much, indeed," said Mr. Carker.
"Such charming times!" cried Cleopatra. "So full of Faith! So vigorous and forcible! So picturesque! So perfectly removed from commonplace! Oh dear! If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry of existence in these terrible days!"
Mrs. Skewton was looking sharp after Mr. Dombey all the time she said this, who was looking at Edith: who was listening, but who never lifted up her eyes.
"We are dreadfully real, Mr. Carker," said Mrs. Skewton; "are we not?"
Few people had less reason to complain of their reality than Cleopatra, who had as much that was false about her as could well go to the composition of anybody with a real individual existence. But Mr. Carker commiserated our reality nevertheless, and agreed that we were very hardly used in that regard.
"Pictures at the Castle, quite divine!" said Cleopatra. "I hope you dote upon pictures?"
"I assure you, Mrs. Skewton," said Mr. Dombey, with solemn encouragement of his Manager, "that Carker has a very good taste for pictures; quite a natural power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable artist himself. He will be delighted, I am sure, with Mrs. Granger’s taste and skill."
"Damme, Sir!" cried Major Bagstock, "my opinion is, that you ’re the admirable Carker, and can do anything."
"Oh!" smiled Carker, with humility, "you are much too sanguine, Major Bagstock. I can do very little. But Mr. Dombey is so generous in his estimation of any trivial accomplishment a man like myself may find it almost necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very different sphere, he is far superior, that—" Mr. Carker shrugged his shoulders, deprecating further praise, and said no more.
All this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to glance towards her mother when that lady’s fervent spirit shone forth in words. But as Carker ceased, she looked at Mr. Dombey for a moment. For a moment only; but with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her face, not lost on one observer, who was smiling round the board.
Mr. Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent, and took the opportunity of arresting it.
"You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?" said Mr. Dombey.
"The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid."
"Oh no; not at all."
"Ah! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith," said Mrs. Skewton. "He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if he has been there once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow—I wish he would, dear angel!—he would make his fifty-second visit next day."
"We are all enthusiastic, are we not, Mama?" said Edith, with a cold smile.
"Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear," returned her mother; "but we won’t complain. Our own emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix says, the sword wears out the what’s-its-name—"