Dombey was greatly moved when he heard that Miss Montague had accepted an invitation to dinner, but there was no help for it, and, as though to make matters worse invitations were sent to a few intimate friends, including Mrs. Trotter. Here, then, was a painful position for the two guilty ones: they were forced to sit and see the child whom they had cast off fêted and honored by the woman both of them had injured. It seemed as if a wet blanket were placed over the whole assembly: Dombey sat moodily biting his finger-nails, and as Mrs. Trotter would not sing and Mrs. Dombey _could_ not, matters went very slowly indeed. When the time came for separating, Mrs. Dombey motioned to Jacob to see Miss Montague to her hotel, but he being deep in a fit of abstraction, his eldest son Charles stepped forward, and before his father could prevent him, was equipped in greatcoat and overshoes, ready for a moonlight stroll. During the evening he had noticed that Charles was rather attentive to the fair actress, and the thought that an intimacy between them was possible drove him to the verge of distraction, Mrs. Dombey noticed his strange behavior, and asked him the cause, on which he muttered something about “Auction lunch--infernal champagne,” and some other incoherent exclamations, altogether unintelligible to his unsuspicious wife. When he and his paramour got outside they walked along in gloomy silence for several minutes--at last he addressed her: “Is it not strange that this child, whom I had thought far removed from me and mine, should be brought even into my own house, and eat at my table?” “Oh, it is fearful; only think what would be the consequence if an intimacy should spring up between her and Charles!” “Yes, I must send him away at once.” Mrs. Trotter reminded him that this step was unnecessary, as Miss Montague left the next day for Chicago to fulfil a professional engagement. He heaved a sigh of relief, and then, with a passionate tug at Mrs. Trotter’s door bell, turned to go away. “Will you not come in a while, Jack?” she said. “No, he replied, Clara (Mrs. Dombey) would suspect something. She looked at me very strangely this evening.” “But you will come to-morrow,” rejoined the temptress. “Yes, I will look in on my way up from the office,” he said. “Good night.” “Good night, Jack,” said she. As he got to his own door he found Charles leaning pensively against the balustrade, gazing wistfully at the heavens. “Well, Charlie, have you forgotten your latch-key?” “N--no Sir,” stammered Charles, “but it is so confoundedly hot inside that I did not care to go in.” Dombey reflected that as the thermometer registered only about ten degrees Fahrenheit he had but to open his window to attain as low a temperature as was consistent with comfort; however, he said nothing, and they both walked upstairs. “Good night, Charlie.” “Good night, Father.” And they entered their respective chambers.