worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in the general green grocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is particular requested. This announcement is received with acclamation; and Mrs. Perch, projecting her soul into futurity, says, "girls," in Cook’s ear, in a solemn whisper.
Misfortune in the family without feasting, in these lower regions, couldn’t be. Therefore Cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper, and Mr. Towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same hospitable purpose. Even Mrs. Pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings her bell, and sends down word that she requests to have that little bit of sweetbread that was left, warmed up for her supper, and sent to her on a tray with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry; for she feels poorly.
There is a little talk about Mr. Dombey, but very little. It is chiefly speculation as to how long he has known that this was going to happen. Cook says shrewdly, "Oh a long time, bless you! Take your oath of that." And reference being made to Mr. Perch, he confirms her view of the case. Somebody wonders what he ’ll do, and whether he ’ll go out in any situation. Mr. Towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one of them genteel almshouses of the better kind. "Ah, where he ’ll have his little garden, you know," says Cook plaintively, "and bring up sweet-peas in the spring." "Exactly so," says Mr. Towlinson, "and be one of the Brethren of something or another." "We are all brethren," says Mrs. Perch, in a pause of her drink. "Except the sisters," says Mr. Perch. "How are the mighty fallen!" remarks Cook. "Pride shall have a fall, and it always was and will be so!" observes the housemaid.
It is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections; and what a Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common shock with resignation. There is only one interruption to this excellent state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchenmaid of inferior rank—in black stockings—who, having sat with her mouth open for a long time, unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect, "Suppose the wages shouldn’t be paid!" The company sit for a moment speechless; but Cook recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and requests to know how she dares insult the family, whose bread she eats, by such a dishonest supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody, with a scrap of honour left, could deprive poor servants of their pittance? "Because if that is your religious feelings, Mary Daws," says Cook warmly, "I don’t know where you mean to go to."
Mr. Towlinson don’t know either; nor anybody; and the young kitchenmaid, appearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by the general voice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment.
After a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to make appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived there. Especially, there is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of countenance, with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket, asks Mr. Towlinson (by the easy name of "Old Cock,") if he happens to know what the figure of them crimson and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. The
