It soon appeared that if Mrs Sparsit had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses were accustomed to splendour, ‘but it is my duty to remember,’ Mrs Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of the domestics were present, ‘that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed,’ said she, ‘if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr Sparsit was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under existing circumstances, right to do so.’ The same Hermitical state of mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until fairly commanded by Mr Bounderby to take them; when she said, ‘Indeed you are very good, sir;’ and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to ‘wait for the simple mutton.’ She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose.

But Mrs Sparsit’s greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, ‘Alas poor Yorick!’ After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, ‘You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;’ and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curiousn propensity to call Mrs Bounderby ‘Miss Gradgrind,’ and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; ‘the differences,’ she observed, ‘being such.’

In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train.

When candles were brought, Mrs Sparsit murmured, ‘Don’t be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do.’ Mr Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. ‘I cannot bear to see you so, sir,’ said Mrs Sparsit. ‘Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof.’ ‘I haven’t played backgammon, ma’am,’ said Mr Bounderby, ‘since that time.’ ‘No, sir,’ said Mrs Sparsit, soothingly, ‘I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend.’

They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. ‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ said Mr Bounderby; ‘you don’t see a Fire, do you?’ ‘Oh dear no, sir,’ returned Mrs Sparsit, ‘I was thinking of the dew.’ ‘What have you got to do with the dew, ma’am?’ said Mr Bounderby. ‘It’s not myself, sir,’ returned Mrs Sparsit, ‘I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind’s taking cold.’ ‘She never takes cold,’ said Mr Bounderby. ‘Really, sir?’ said Mrs Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat.