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.”