"I am a man, my dear madam," said Mr. Pecksniff, shedding tears, and speaking with an imperfect articulation, "but I am also a father. I am also a widower. My feelings, Mrs. Todgers, will not consent to be entirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown up, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round the corner of it." He suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it intently: shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner, as if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it. "She was beautiful, Mrs. Todgers," he said, turning his glazed eye again upon her, without the least preliminary notice. "She had a small property." "So I have heard," said Mrs. Todgers with great sympathy. "Those are her daughters," said Mr. Pecksniff, pointing out the young ladies, with increased emotion. Mrs. Todgers had no doubt about it. "Mercy and Charity," said Mr. Pecksniff, "Charity and Mercy. Not unholy names, I hope?" "Mr. Pecksniff!" cried Mrs. Todgers. "What a ghastly smile! Are you ill, sir?" He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a faint voice, "Chronic." "Chronic?" cried the frightened Mrs. Todgers. "Chron-ic," he repeated with some difficulty. "Chronic. A chronic disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my grave." "Heaven forbid!" cried Mrs. Todgers. "Yes, it is," said Mr. Pecksniff, reckless with despair. "I am rather glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs. Todgers." "Don't squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr. Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen should notice us." "For her sake," said Mr. Pecksniff. "Permit me. In honour of her memory. For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are _very_ like her, Mrs. Todgers! What a world this is!" "Ah! Indeed you may say that!" cried Mrs. Todgers. "I am afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world," said Mr. Pecksniff, overflowing with despondency. "These young people about us. Oh! what sense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other hand, Mrs. Todgers." The lady hesitated, and said "she didn't like." "Has a voice from the grave no influence?" said Mr. Pecksniff with dismal tenderness. "This is irreligious! My dear creature." "Hush!" urged Mrs. Todgers. "Really you mustn't." "It's not me," said Mr. Pecksniff. "Don't suppose it's me: it's the voice; it's her voice." Mrs. Pecksniff, deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice for a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat of a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in which Mr. Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his part. "It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs. Todgers, but still it has been a day of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the world?" "An excellent gentleman, Mr. Pecksniff," said Mrs. Todgers.