“Your observation being limited to ‘little puss,’ ” said Mrs. Sparsit, “and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression.”

“Louisa,” repeated Mr. Bounderby. “Louisa, Louisa.”

“You are quite another father to Louisa, sir.” Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods.

“If you had said I was another father to Tom⁠—young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind⁠—you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma’am.”