“I have been in many places.”
“What have you been?” asked Mr. Boffin.
Here again he made no great advance, for the reply was, “I have been a student and a traveller.”
“But if it ain’t a liberty to plump it out,” said Mr. Boffin, “what do you do for your living?”
“I have mentioned,” returned the other, with another look at him, and a smile, “what I aspire to do. I have been superseded as to some slight intentions I had, and I may say that I have now to begin life.”
Not very well knowing how to get rid of this applicant, and feeling the more embarrassed because his manner and appearance claimed a delicacy in which the worthy Mr. Boffin feared he himself might be deficient, that gentleman glanced into the mouldy little plantation or cat-preserve, of Clifford’s Inn, as it was that day, in search of a suggestion. Sparrows were there, cats were there, dry-rot and wet-rot were there, but it was not otherwise a suggestive spot.
“All this time,” said the stranger, producing a little pocketbook and taking out a card, “I have not mentioned my name. My name is Rokesmith. I lodge at one Mr. Wilfer’s, at Holloway.”
Mr. Boffin stared again.
“Father of Miss Bella Wilfer?” said he.
“My landlord has a daughter named Bella. Yes; no doubt.”
Now, this name had been more or less in Mr. Boffin’s thoughts all the morning, and for days before; therefore he said: