“Ye‑e‑es,” replied Bella, with a drawl of indifference.
“A love story, Miss Wilfer?”
“Oh dear no, or I shouldn’t be reading it. It’s more about money than anything else.”
“And does it say that money is better than anything?”
“Upon my word,” returned Bella, “I forget what it says, but you can find out for yourself if you like, Mr. Rokesmith. I don’t want it any more.”
The Secretary took the book—she had fluttered the leaves as if it were a fan—and walked beside her.
“I am charged with a message for you, Miss Wilfer.”
“Impossible, I think!” said Bella, with another drawl.
“From Mrs. Boffin. She desired me to assure you of the pleasure she has in finding that she will be ready to receive you in another week or two at furthest.”
Bella turned her head towards him, with her prettily-insolent eyebrows raised, and her eyelids drooping. As much as to say, “How did you come by the message, pray?”
“I have been waiting for an opportunity of telling you that I am Mr. Boffin’s Secretary.”
“I am as wise as ever,” said Miss Bella, loftily, “for I don’t know what a Secretary is. Not that it signifies.”
“Not at all.”