Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me that, under my humble roof, there’s hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in other people’s affairs.”

Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, “Really, sir?”

“I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “and it appears to my poor judgement——”

“Oh! Pray, sir,” Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, “don’t disparage your judgement. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby’s judgement is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your judgement, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing.

Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed:

“It appears to me, ma’am, I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a lady of your powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers’s, now. Don’t you think you might find some affairs there, ma’am, to interfere with?”

“It never occurred to me before, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “but now you mention it, I should think it highly probable.”

“Then suppose you try, ma’am,” said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it in her little basket. “You can take your own time for going, ma’am, but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind to eat her meals by herself and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologize to you—being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown—for having stood in your light so long.”

“Pray don’t name it, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “If that portrait could speak, sir—but it has the advantage over the original of not possessing the power of committing itself and disgusting others—it would testify that a long period has elapsed since I first habitually addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. Nothing that a Noodle does can awaken surprise or indignation; the proceedings of a Noodle can only inspire contempt.”

Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman features like a medal struck to commemorate her scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed him fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully past him, and ascended the staircase. Mr. Bounderby closed the door and stood before the fire, projecting himself after his old explosive manner into his portrait—and into futurity.

Into how much of futurity? He saw Mrs. Sparsit fighting out a daily fight at the points of all the weapons in the female armoury, with the grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting Lady Scadgers, still laid up in bed with her mysterious leg, and gobbling her insufficient income down by about the middle of every quarter, in a mean little airless lodging, a mere closet for one, a mere crib for two; but did he see more? Did he catch any glimpse of himself making a show of Bitzer to strangers as the rising young man, so devoted to his master’s great merits, who had won young Tom’s place, and had almost captured young Tom himself, in the times when by various rascals he was spirited away? Did he see any faint reflection of his own image making a vainglorious will whereby five-and-twenty Humbugs past five-and-fifty years of age, each taking upon himself the name Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, should forever dine in Bounderby Hall, forever lodge in Bounderby buildings, forever attend a Bounderby chapel, forever go to sleep under a Bounderby chaplain, forever be supported out of a Bounderby estate, and forever nauseate all healthy stomachs with a vast amount of Bounderby balderdash and bluster? Had he any prescience of the day, five years to come, when Josiah Bounderby of Coketown was to die of a fit in the Coketown street, and this same precious will was to begin its long career of quibble, plunder, false pretences, vile example, little service and much law? Probably not. Yet the portrait was to see it all out.

Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same day, and in the same hour, sitting thoughtful in his own room. How much of futurity did he see? Did he see himself, a white-haired decrepit man, bending his hitherto inflexible theories to appointed circumstances; making his facts and figures subservient to Faith, Hope, and Charity; and no longer trying to grind that Heavenly trio in his dusty little mills? Did he catch sight of himself therefore much despised by his late political associates? Did he see them, in the era of its being quite settled that the national dustmen