One Saturday afternoon, at dusk, great consternation was occasioned in the Castle by the unlooked-for announcement of Mr Dombey as a visitor to Mrs Pipchin.

The population of the parlour was immediately swept upstairs as on the wings of a whirlwind, and after much slamming of bedroom doors, and trampling overhead, and some knocking about of Master Bitherstone by Mrs Pipchin, as a relief to the perturbation of her spirits, the black bombazeen garments of the worthy old lady darkened the audience-chamber where Mr Dombey was contemplating the vacant arm-chair of his son and heir.
'Mrs Pipchin,' said Mr Dombey, 'How do you do ?' 'Thank you, Sir,' said Mrs Pipchin, 'I am pretty well, considering.' Mrs Pipchin always used that form of words.

It meant, considering her virtues, sacrifices, and so forth.
'I can't expect, Sir, to be very well,' said Mrs Pipchin, taking a chair and fetching her breath; 'but such health as I have, I am grateful for.' Mr Dombey inclined his head with the satisfied air of a patron, who felt that this was the sort of thing for which he paid so much a quarter.
After a moment's silence he went on to say: 'Mrs Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to consult you in reference to my son.

I have had it in my mind to do so for some time past; but have deferred it from time to time, in order that his health might be thoroughly re-established.

You have no misgivings on that subject, Mrs Pipchin ?' 'Brighton has proved very beneficial, Sir,' returned Mrs Pipchin.