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'
'Ay, ay? Has resources of her own,' said Harthouse, smoking
quietly.
'Not so much of that as you may suppose,' returned Tom; 'for our
governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust.
It's his system.'
'Formed his daughter on his own model?' suggested Harthouse.
'His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why, he formed Me that
way!' said Tom.
'Impossible!'
'He did, though,' said Tom, shaking his head. 'I mean to say, Mr.
Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby's,
I was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than
any oyster does.'
'Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke's a joke.'
'Upon my soul!' said the whelp. 'I am serious; I am indeed!' He
smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then
added, in a highly complacent tone, 'Oh! I have picked up a little
since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to
the governor.'
'And your intelligent sister?'
'My intelligent sister is about where she was.


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