my dear Bella, as I do. But I want my Noddy to consult with us. Would somebody be so good as find my Noddy for me?”
Rokesmith departed on that errand, and presently returned accompanied by Mr. Boffin at his jog-trot. Bella felt a little vague trepidation as to the subject-matter of this same consultation, until Mrs. Boffin announced it.
“Now, you come and sit by me, my dear,” said that worthy soul, taking her comfortable place on a large ottoman in the centre of the room, and drawing her arm through Bella’s; “and Noddy, you sit here, and Mr. Rokesmith you sit there. Now, you see, what I want to talk about, is this. Mr. and Mrs. Milvey have sent me the kindest note possible (which Mr. Rokesmith just now read to me out aloud, for I ain’t good at handwritings), offering to find me another little child to name and educate and bring up. Well. This has set me thinking.”
(“And she is a steam-ingein at it,” murmured Mr. Boffin, in an admiring parenthesis, “when she once begins. It mayn’t be so easy to start her; but once started, she’s a ingein.”)
“—This has set me thinking, I say,” repeated Mrs. Boffin, cordially beaming under the influence of her husband’s compliment, “and I have thought two things. First of all, that I have grown timid of reviving John Harmon’s name. It’s an unfortunate name, and I fancy I should reproach myself if I gave it to another dear child, and it proved again unlucky.”
“Now, whether,” said Mr. Boffin, gravely propounding a case for his Secretary’s opinion; “whether one might call that a superstition?”
“It is a matter of feeling with Mrs. Boffin,” said Rokesmith, gently. “The name has always been unfortunate. It has now this new unfortunate association connected with it. The name has died out. Why revive it? Might I ask Miss Wilfer what she thinks?”