Yet the portrait was to see it all out.
Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same day, and in the same hour,
sitting thoughtful in his own room. How much of futurity did he
see? Did he see himself, a white-haired decrepit man, bending his
hitherto inflexible theories to appointed circumstances; making his
facts and figures subservient to Faith, Hope, and Charity; and no
longer trying to grind that Heavenly trio in his dusty little
mills? Did he catch sight of himself, therefore much despised by
his late political associates? Did he see them, in the era of its
being quite settled that the national dustmen have only to do with
one another, and owe no duty to an abstraction called a People,
'taunting the honourable gentleman' with this and with that and
with what not, five nights a-week, until the small hours of the
morning? Probably he had that much foreknowledge, knowing his men.
Here was Louisa on the night of the same day, watching the fire as
in days of yore, though with a gentler and a humbler face.
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